


One Hundred Ninety-Two Days

by writer1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Arguing, Attempt at Humor, Depression, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Nudity, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer1/pseuds/writer1
Summary: Set after S02 E03 - The Reichenbach Fall.John isn't coping well after Sherlock's death.  Mycroft takes matters into his own hands, finally getting Sherlock to come home.  But they didn't eliminate Moriarty's network.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Siger Holmes/Violet Holmes
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Not Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Not really sure where this is going, but I will post as often as possible. Rating and content may change. This is not already written and is subject to my mood, so please pay attention to tags. This has not been Britpicked nor Betaed so all errors are my own. Happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is feeling pretty low. Mycroft comes to visit.

One hundred ninety-two days. He marks the tally in his notebook and sits back, slate eyes focused hard on the small inked line. It’s sadistic, he knows, counting the days of what started as a survival log that somehow became a countdown. To what, he isn’t sure yet. Depends on the day. How he feels. If he has his gun. 

_John_

Honestly, he’s impressed he’s made it this long. Yes, after he’d been invalided from the war he’d felt bereft. Alone. But that was nothing compared to now. This loss is prodigious. Insurmountable beyond repair. He’s lost. Lost his friend. Himself. Lost it all. And now, it’s a struggle to find the drive to continue. 

_John_

It isn’t just his death. No, things continue to pile up. The tabloids haunt the doorstep of 221B and, because John never replies, the lies are published. WEB DETECTIVE A FRAUD, JOHN WATSON REFUSES TO DEFEND LOVER, and HOLMES COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER DESTROYING RICHARD BROOK. It becomes too much when Lestrade calls him in for questioning over a past unsolved murder case with claims that he and the ‘fake detective’ were somehow involved. 

_John_

A lump forms in his throat and he struggles to swallow down the sour bile with his fifth glass of whiskey. It’s the same every night. Has been, for one hundred ninety-two days. The tally marks blur and he squeezes his eyes shut only to refocus on the empty leather chair in front of him. He is alone. More alone than he’s ever been in his life. A life he can’t be bothered with anymore.

“Doctor John Watson.”

John starts and blinks back to reality, groaning when he turns too fast toward the voice. A real voice. Maybe. And sure enough, to his right stands a tall ginger-haired twat in a bespoke suit with a black umbrella. Christ. He doesn't look pleased. 

“Oh, i’s you,” John slurs. 

The tall man frowns. “Indeed. I thought it pertinent to pay you a visit.” 

John sniffs and blinks bloodshot eyes at him. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, reaching for the bottle of spirits while attempting to set down his glass, spilling both over the small table. He curses, barely saving his gun from the spreading liquor and slings it dry before resting it on the arm of his chair. Mycroft eyes him warily.

“Might need it,” John says intently. After a long moment, he looks back to his company. “Sorry ‘bout the drips. So . . . what can I do for the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes?” 

“I’ve come to see how you are.”

John sighs heavily, not liking the direction of the conversation but he sits up straighter and does his best to appear soberer than he feels. Maybe the overbearing git will get bored and go back to his castle, or if John’s lucky, forget he even exists. 

“I’m fine.”

“Interesting, because it’s come to my attention that you’ve quit your job, haven’t left the flat in months, refuse to speak to anyone, and have a bit of a drinking problem.” 

The last is said with a decided sneer but not toward the table or the carpet and suddenly something small, something . . . unimportant but pertinent niggles in the back of his head that tells him Mycroft isn’t buying what he’s selling. But John doesn’t flinch. He’s far too drunk to react. Hell, he’s far too drunk to care. He just wants the man to leave. So maybe, just maybe, if he acts like a big enough dick, Mycroft will get mad and go away. 

“Said sorry ‘bout the drips,” John deadpans, sinking back into his chair like a doll.

“That mess isn’t the problem,” Mycroft responds in kind.

“Yep, you mean me. I’m the mess. John Hamish Watson, the unemployed, sequestered drunk in yer brother’s flat.” John waves a hand up at the ceiling with dramatic flair before letting it fall flat in his lap, “I can leave. I’s okay,” his lips turn down, “Wasn’t planning on sticking around much longer anyway.”

Mycroft’s frown deepens, as if John cares, but then the man has the gall to plant his pompous ass across from him, in his dead brother’s leather chair. “John -”

“Don’t.” John shakes his head, levelling narrowed eyes at him, “You’re not my friend.”

“You may not see me as such, but -”

“No,” John says, his mind shifting wildly between the man sitting there and the man who belongs there, “you’re my stalker. Tracking my every move, my work, my drink,” he enunciates sharply. His hand squeezes repeatedly over the gun in slow reps and he blinks, forcing his eyes to focus. “I won’t play your game, Mycroft. Everything you’ve done -- Your absence from the funeral. Your indifference. Your audacity, here, now,” John sits forward and hisses, “It’s distasteful.”

It’s only a drop of what John really wants to say. He could spew dislike and fault down on this man forever but it wouldn’t make a difference. Mycroft obviously doesn’t care. Nothing changes. 

“What d’you really want, hmh? Finally come to the conclusion that -” his voice catches, emotion threatening to choke him, “that I killed your little brother?”

Mycroft finally seems uncomfortable and it makes John happy, a quick thrill surging through his system that he, pathetic John Watson, made the cold-hearted British Government hazard something close to empathy. Serves the prick right. But it’s a hollow victory and before John can appreciate it, the hateful suffocation of pain rushes back over him. 

“Come to punish me? Or erase me?” 

Mycroft casts his eyes briefly down to his hands before settling back on John, once again void of any sentiment. John, undeterred, moves to the edge of his seat, arm stretched out to offer Mycroft the Browning laying in the flat of his palm. 

“Please,” his voice cracks, “I deserve it.” 

Both men stare at one another, John haggard and near tears and Mycroft sitting like a slightly uncomfortable statue. Neither moves. But John waits. Hopes. He needs this. Because he hasn’t been able to do it himself. Not yet. A pregnant silence stretches between the two. Mycroft finally clears his throat and the sound echoes loudly, catching them both off guard. 

“I’m not here to blame you, Doctor Watson. I’m here to . . .” Mycroft hesitates, probably choosing his words carefully as he ponders the inebriated army captain before him, “to let you know that . . . if you need anything -”

John’s rigid body falls back in defeat and he scoffs loudly, both disappointed in himself for asking and in Mycroft for not taking his chance. 

“‘m fine,” he mumbles for the second time that night.

“You can, of course, stay here as long as you need,” Mycroft says sounding unperturbed, “It’s easy enough to get your job back, or a new one, if you so choose. I can also schedule you an appointment with a top psychiatrist. Enroll you into an AA group.”

“I don’t need your help,” John snaps.

“I beg to differ.”

“My life is none of your business.” John’s eyes are alight with fire, his anger near to a boil. “How dare you. How fucking _dare you_ \-- the prat who can’t give a damn about his own brother has the balls to come in here and claim to want to help _me_. To get _me_ a job and a therapist. You’re a real piece of work, Mycroft.” 

The urge to shoot is so strong. Mycroft is heartless. John knows this, but he knows Mycroft’s not the reason _he’s_ gone. Mycroft didn’t just stand there and watch him jump. No, that responsibility lies solely with John Watson. And the knowledge of this truth is killing him, every single day bringing him closer. He squeezes the gun pulling it to himself and takes a deep shuddering breath. And although he hates the elder Holmes, his eyes seek the man out, finding strangely that Mycroft’s expression reflects pity. 

“Doctor Watson -”

John shakes his head, “You’ve overstayed your welcome . . .”

“If you would just let me -”

“It’s time for you to go.”

“Sherlock would want me to help you.” 

That’s it. His breaking point. John’s heart stops at the name. Raising his hands to his face, he leans forward, gun rubbing harshly against his forehead. “Sher-- Sherlock is dead . . . and what he wants doesn’t matter anymore.” John pauses, the words so hard to get out. “Nothing matters when it comes to - him. Not the truth,” he points to a stack of newspapers, “not his life, and definitely not me.” 

Mycroft takes a paper in his hands and John watches as he reads the lies, ones he probably made up himself, gracing the front page in big bold letters. Setting it to the side, Mycroft leans forward, probably to further badger him with more useless prattle, but John can’t.

“Get out.”

Mycroft hesitates briefly but continues anyway, completely disregarding his quickly deteriorating emotional state like the callous bastard he is. “Sherlock wouldn’t want this for you, Doctor Watson. The drinking, the weakness.”

“I can’t.”

“To him, you were strong and effervescent and alive in every way.”

“Mycroft, please, _I can’t_ ,” it’s a soft pained mewl slipping from his lips. 

“And in return, you brought _him_ alive. Teaching him what it was to be human,” Mycroft softens to nearly a whisper, “to love; a feat not easily achieved by us Holmes.”

“ _I said I can’t_!!” 

John jumps from the chair, his eyes flashing with rage, and presses the gun to Mycroft’s head. “You never loved your brother, not like I do. You have _no right_! No right.” 

His hand shakes and tears fall free as he tries and fails to calm his sharp breaths. His chest feels fucking ripped open and his teeth grind from the pain, from the constant emptiness that can only be filled with anger. But Mycroft doesn’t move, only stares back as John falls apart before him. 

“ _Agh_!” John wrenches back with a quick jerk and looks down at Mycroft in shock and remorse, his hands held up in supplication. “Christ. I . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

With a deep groan, he backs away, staggering toward the fireplace suddenly feeling incredibly sick. _What the hell am I doing? I nearly killed Sherlock’s brother._ It takes a few minutes, but he finally gets his breathing under control, the tears dried away on his wet sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, not really sure he means it, “but this bullet . . . it’s not for you.”

John rests his hands over the mantlepiece, his mind no longer racing but now placid and calm. He lifts the gun, his thumb shaking as he pulls back the hammer. Through his peripheral, he sees Mycroft stand, very slowly, and move to intercept, this time reaching out for the weapon. 

“Neither is it for you, Doctor.” 

And suddenly, there’s a standoff. A battle of wills as the invalided army doctor faces off with the British Government. Neither moves. Neither speaks. The faint ticking of a clock flicks between them almost menacingly, exacerbating the moment until finally, John moves his arm behind him and tucks the weapon into his trousers. 

“Maybe not tonight.”

Mycroft’s lips thin in frustration. The ginger man briefly looks down at the umbrella he fiddles and shakes his head as if both disagreeing and contemplating John’s reply. When he looks back up John is caught off guard by the sudden and unusual smile.

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.”

With that, a swift breeze and a crack sounds as the handle of Mycroft’s umbrella connects with John’s temple.


	2. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's got an owie. Mycroft's a meanie. Lestrade is confused.

The wail of sirens screams through the night, bringing him back from the dark. John groans, attempting to sit up but a firm hand pushes him back to the ground. 

“Please lie still Doctor Watson,” a male voice says.

John pries his eyes open and blinks blearily through the rain pelting down, both soaking him and freezing him to the bone. His head hurts, he’s nauseous, and he has no idea where he is. As if in slow motion, he moves a hand to his head but it’s quickly slapped away. Prats. The medic checking him frowns and John wonders if he'd spoken aloud, but because he’s really angry, he continues to curse quite vividly until someone moves to stand over him finally blocking out the rain. At least there’s an umbrella covering him now. Then suddenly, the memory of Mycroft Holmes and his stupid face comes to mind and John growls, a few more choice words following. 

“The hell - Let me through! _John! John Watson!!_ I know this man, get out of my bloody way.”

There’s a smattering of soft words as someone attempts to stop the newcomer. This is followed by several raised voices causing the hand holding him down to leave John’s chest and, taking advantage of the moment, he sits up, focusing his eyes on Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade attempting to slip past a very large man in a black suit. 

Time slows down, or maybe he’s got a concussion, but the two men seem to dance in the rain. Black suit swings a meaty fist and Lestrade, surprisingly graceful, dodges and returns, the sound of wet flesh slapping flesh echoes. The detective tucks in and lands another two blows to the man's abdomen and chin. John is impressed when the giant man staggers back. But three more lackeys converge and within seconds Lestrade is restrained, tugging against his captors and releasing his own litany of curses. Black suit man, wet and bleeding and angry, again moves toward Lestrade but the sharp bark of a familiar voice stills them all.

“Enough!” 

“Mycroft?” Lestrade says in surprise.

The government official flicks his wrist and Lestrade is immediately released. Not glancing back, he sprints over and kneels down next to John. “John! Christ, you all right? I was told you’d been attacked.” 

John swallows thickly and nods, “That was pretty cool.” Lestrade’s worried eyes convey he’s not convinced of his current state of health and he places a hand on John's shoulder squeezing gently, yelling for someone to fetch a bloody blanket. 

And then Mycroft Holmes walks up with his stupid umbrella spread wide over his pompous head. The twat stares down at them, all bespoke suit and shiny shoes, his lips turned into a frown. “John, you need to allow these medics to take you to hospital.”

“As opposed to the real medics,” John snips, so in-tuned with the Holmes way of speaking that he never takes anything at face value. 

Lestrade looks at the surrounding people, strangers, and grips his shoulder tighter. John can sense his unease. And really, he should be uneasy. Mycroft is an unpredictable manipulative psychopath with all the strength of the British army and god knows who else at his beck and call. He is also petulant and impatient, like a child who’s unhappy with his toys. So, of course, John wants to rile him.

“Why?” 

“Because you’ve been attacked,” comes the smooth half-lie.

John nearly laughs out loud at how ridiculous this charade is. But why? What is Mycroft’s motivation for such actions? Is John’s life in danger? And even if it is, why would he care? John’s the reason Sherlock is dead. Mycroft should hate him. 

“John, did you see who did it?” Lestrade asks, clearly oblivious to what’s really going on.

John does laugh now, a deep, full-bodied chuckle that makes his head throb something awful. “Yeah. Ugly, a bit pudgy, and hits like a bitch.” 

He then groans and leans to the side as copious amounts of sour bile and alcohol exit his stomach and splatter onto the ground to create a large orange phlegmy puddle. The medic closest to him whines in protest but John merely shrugs, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he lies back on the wet pavement, not giving a damn. 

Mycroft looks completely disgusted and quickly reaches down to grab Lestrade’s arm, tugging him up and under the umbrella a few feet away allowing the medics to finish with John. The DI stumbles into the elder Holmes and the two men lock eyes. Lestrade opens his mouth to speak but stands frozen in Mycroft’s grip. 

“Ugh! Christ’s sake, get a room.” John’s foul groan is garbled but gets the point across as both men quickly move apart, Lestrade looking flushed and Mycroft returning to his pissy self. 

“Gregory, you should ride with him.”

Lestrade nods mutely and moves out of the way as John is placed on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance none too gently. The silver-haired man follows, smiling down at him.

“It’s really good to see you, John. Well . . . not like this, of course, but I haven’t heard from you in months. Was startin’ to worry, you know,” he tilts his head and blinks in doelike thought, “well, still am worried. Just not as much.”

John nearly asks him what he means but the look on Lestrade’s face says enough. _He’s waiting for the call saying I’ve offed myself._ The ambulance sways to the side and John’s stomach lurches with it. The thought that Greg, his friend, probably his only friend now, would get that call made him sick. He’d never thought about it, how it would destroy Mrs. Hudson to find his body or how sad Molly would be if he were on a slab in her morgue. 

John sighs heavily and puts a hand on the DI’s arm, as close as he’s likely to get to apologizing for the conceivable. “It’s good to see you too, Greg.”

The two fall into a comfortable silence as the ambulance rumbles on, machines buzzing, medics working, and for once, John is more curious about what the hell Mycroft’s up to rather than wallowing in his own depressing mire. The whole “you’ve been attacked” thing is an obvious ruse. But to what end? The medics are real enough but definitely in Mycroft’s employ and John’s “attacker” has conveniently gotten away. Smug bastard. All easy enough things to stage a cover-up. But one thing doesn’t add up. 

“Hey, Greg? You said you got a call that I’d been attacked.”

“Yeah.”

“Who called you?”

“Oh, I dunno. My mobile read ‘unknown caller.’”

“They called your mobile.” John nods like he knows something but then pauses because he doesn’t, “But why to you? Why not to the Yard?”

Why indeed? Why would Mycroft have called Lestrade if this is all just a cover? What does Lestrade have to do with anything? Is he in danger too? The DI opens his mouth in an effort to form some sort of response but John stops him with a hand.

“Nah, nevermind.” He’ll think about it later. Right now, his head hurts. “So, what's going on with you and Mycroft?” 

Lestrade blinks, looking horribly confused, and John nearly laughs out loud as he now clearly sees why Sherlock always found the detective to be what he considered ‘dim-witted.’ Abruptly, his heart skips from light to heavy to ripping apart at the ease in which he still thinks of his late friend and John closes his fists tightly in an attempt to squelch the sudden pain. Through his peripheral, he sees Lestrade’s face flame red and he focuses back on that. There’s an awkward cough followed by a long, drawn-out stream of grunts and half-spoken words that the detective finally forces into a sentence. 

“Well, there actually isn’t a ‘me and Mycroft.’ Not so much. I mean, we talk, um, not really a lot but - well he’s different. You know, like Sherlock was I guess. I dunno.”

John stares up at the white metal and briefly wonders what type of relationship the two have but quickly dismisses the idea. He really doesn’t want to know who Lestrade shags. It’s hard to envision anyway, especially considering Mycroft and his distaste for anything labelled normal or human. But, in retrospect, John knows exactly how the DI feels. He felt the same way the first time he’d met Sherlock. The mysterious energy. The unusual vibe. The sudden intrigue. The complete and utter draw. There was nothing for it. John didn’t stand a chance. Neither does Lestrade. 

Sherlock Holmes. The name hasn’t been uttered in his presence in so long, until today, and every time it sends John spiralling back into his perpetual well of guilt and anger. There isn’t a day that goes by that John hasn’t wondered what he could’ve done differently. He should’ve stayed at Barts, or at least seen through Sherlock’s lie. Observed what was happening right before his eyes. Really, he should’ve killed Moriarty at the pool when he had the chance. Snapped his neck. 

But none of that matters now. It’s over. John is a failure. He failed his best friend. And now Sherlock Holmes is dead. 

The ambulance stops and the medics tell John to take it easy and get some rest before exiting at what is not a hospital. Lestrade looks up at the large manor house in awe and confusion until Mycroft passes them on his way to the front door. 

John grips the DI’s shoulder, holding tightly as they move along. “Something tells me you’ll get used to it. Come on - Gregory.”


	3. Mission Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really tall beds. 00-Watson! Mycroft and Sherlock use Zoom.

John leans against Lestrade a bit more than he’d like as they enter the house. He’s weak as a kitten and stumbles as Mycroft leads them up a flight of stairs, down a long hall, and finally to a large wooden door that he opens, standing off to the side for the two to enter. 

“Put him on the bed, please, Gregory.”

There’s a flurry of activity where Lestrade steps back to stand beside Mycroft as two women come in, one to rid John of his wet clothes and the other to roll in a tray sporting hot tea and a dome covering something that smells amazing. If he weren’t so emotionally compromised, what with hating Mycroft’s cake-filled guts and being in a perpetual state of depression over the death of his best friend, he might appreciate this more. As it is, he doesn’t speak but lets them work until he’s tucked up under the duvet with a plate of food and cutlery next to him.

Mycroft doesn’t thank them as they leave but instead addresses John with a stern clip. “Eat. Take some tea and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

At that, he grabs Lestrade and tugs him along, closing the door behind them. 

John immediately pulls his covers back and swings his legs to dangle over the side. A wave of dizziness hits him and he grips the mattress tight until it passes. Reaching up, he feels over the compress where the umbrella connected with his head. It stings. Then, thinking better of things, he takes a moment and pours himself a cup of tea, enjoying the burn as it goes down.

A sudden deep yawn takes him by surprise and he has the urge to just lie back and sleep. God knows he needs the rest. And Christ, it’s tempting, but he doesn’t have time. Even if the bed is nice, soft, and just as fancy as everything else in this house. His feet don’t even touch the floor. John frowns. 

“Posh git and his posh bed.” 

After a few minutes of getting his bearings, he slips to the floor and pads over the thick carpet to begin checking the room. The door’s locked. Not surprising. One window, but double-paned and doesn’t open. The air vent is tiny, only large enough for a small dog or rodent. It brings to mind a case Sherlock once told him about where a man had charmed a snake to enter a room through a connecting vent and bite its victim. He wishes he’d been there then, solving cases with his friend.

Shaking his head, John continues his examination of his fancy prison and any possible means of escape. After searching the bureau, dresser, and bedside tables, all John has to show for his work is a lamp, a fountain pen, a pad of paper, a bible, an old antique globe, and a handful of socks. It’s not much, and with a sigh, he sits on the floor in defeat. But there, under his foot, something scrapes him. Feeling about, he comes up with a bobby pin, definitely not something Mycroft would leave behind, so it likely fell out of one of the women’s hair. With a triumphant grin, he grabs the globe and smashes it against the bureau. Grabbing one of the long metal hinges, he bends it straight and heads across the room. 

Another feeling of dizziness hits him just as he reaches the door and he nearly vomits at the feeling of vertigo that drops him to his knees. Taking several deep breaths through his nose, he adjusts the pin just so and inserts it into the hole, followed by the straightened hinge, and begins work on picking the lock. It’s several minutes later that he finally hears the click, and with a satisfied sigh, he grips the handle, pressing down to pull the door open. 

Poking his head out, Jonn can see that the lights are on, but they’re dim and, if needs must, he can hide in the shadows. He slips out quickly, but doubles back and grabs a sock and the pen, pulling the door closed behind him. The hallway is narrow but long and John isn’t sure which way to go. A cool breeze filters from the vents and he shivers, goosebumps dotting his skin as he goes from door to door, putting his ear to each one, in turn, searching for his ‘host.’ 

Having cleared his own end of the hall, John goes to the far end. The sound of music and a woman singing can be heard through the first door and John is confident he can eliminate this part of the house. Mycroft would never stoop to rooming next to his servants. So that leaves downstairs. 

Just as he takes his first step onto the staircase, the woman who brought him his food earlier passes below and John ducks back against the wall. He hides as best he can in the shadow of a suit of armor, careful not to knock it but the sudden movement really takes it out of him and he nearly groans aloud as he grips his head, swearing it’s cracking open like a walnut. 

It’s several minutes before he feels prepared to walk again, but now he feels so heavy and can’t seem to get his breath. John moves achingly slow down the steps and wanders through a sitting room that he’s already familiar with. He’s been here once before, just never so deep within the house. If he recalls correctly, the den and the kitchen are on the opposite side. But, just through here, and, down another hallway, he’s sure to find the twat he’s looking for. And when he does, he’s going to break his giant nose, and maybe his jaw, and most definitely his stupid umbrella.

John reaches a second hall and takes a moment to rest against a chair. It’s darker down here with the heavy crimson drapes and a long, thick expensive rug. Light filters through a door at the end of the hall highlighting several floating dust particles like glow bugs. And John can hear voices. He smiles, moving down the narrow passage, pen gripped tight. He can hear Mycroft now, his nasal voice probably bitching about scuffed shoes or a stain on one of his brand new suits. And just as he’s pushing the door to throttle the man he hates, he hears it. The voice. _His voice_. Impossible to forget as he’d heard the deep baritone every day for years. 

“ _So, when you say you’ve ‘handled’ it, what exactly am I to take from that Mycroft? Tell me the truth. What exactly have you done?_ ”

“I told you, brother, everything is in hand. You’ve no need to worry about my -”

The door slides open just as Mycroft turns, his eyes growing large as he notices John. There’s a brief moment of confusion where John is unsure if he’s been drugged or is dreaming. He's tempted to pinch himself but everything seems pretty real. 

“Oh, dear,” the British Government says.

John can’t breathe. His heart is racing and he can’t breathe, “Who . . . who are you talking to?” He takes a step into the room toward the computer Mycroft is standing near but suddenly stops. “Is that . . . no.” John shakes his head, tears streaking down his cheeks. “It can’t be,” his voice breaks, “He’s dead.”

Mycroft looks deathly pale. “Doctor Watson . . .” he tries moving forward but John takes a step back, one hand going to his chest while the other brandishes the pen. He can’t do this. He has to get away. Just as he turns to leave he hears it again, the unquestionable deep baritone of Sherlock Holmes, this time saying his name.

“ _John?_ ” 

And then it all goes to hell. A sharp feminine scream rents the air just as Mycroft raises a hand toward him. There’s a loud clanging sound, so close to his head that his eyes shake, and then all there is, once again, is darkness. 


	4. Lying by Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wears a sock. Sherlock speaks in code. It's all Mycroft's fault.

Mycroft sighs heavily, staring down at an unconscious John Watson bleeding on his new Persian rug, gripping a fountain pen, and completely naked, except for the striped tube sock hastily pulled over his genitals. 

A young blonde maid stands over him, metal pan in hand, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry sir, I thought he was an intruder.”

His lips twist and he tilts his head in contemplation, “No, it’s probably for the best. You’re dismissed, Bethany. And close the door behind you, please.”

“John? Mycroft, is that John?” the voice from the computer says. 

“Yes. Unfortunately, it is.”

“So, I take he heard our -”

“Yes. I believe he did.”

There’s a pause, then, “This is all your fault.”

Mycroft blinks in surprise, “Excuse me?”

“Well, it’s not mine,” Sherlock says petulantly. “You’re the one who kidnapped him, brought him to your home and allowed him into your private office.”

“He was locked in his room,” Mycroft growls.

“Still your fault,” Sherlock frowns, “Next, you’ll be telling me that Lestrade knows as well, and why not just tell the whole of London? I’m sure they’re chomping at the bit to be privy to all your top-secret government conspiracies.”

“Oh, please. They aren’t conspiracies if they’re true.”

“True lies.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, “And I’ve taken care of Gregory. He’s none the wiser of what’s really going on.”

“No, I’m sure he’s completely bewildered by your fumbling attempts at flirtation while only using him as a means to an end,” Sherlock shakes his head sadly, “Poor sap, never stood a chance.”

“As opposed to your many liaisons or that poor young woman at Barts who you treat lower than dirt,” Mycroft rebounds. 

“Molly knows I have a perfectly reasonable excuse to discourage her constant advances. Dangerous living, and all that,” Sherlock says, despite Mycroft’s scoff. “And, I’ve never had any liaisons. Quickies are more your thing.”

“Really? What do you call John Watson then? An unstable ex?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, the best threat he can muster via camera. “That’s very ungentlemanly of you brother. John Watson is much more than that.” There’s a thoughtful pause, then, “Wait, where did he go?”

“Your widow? Oh, he’s still here.”

Sherlock frowns, “What happened?”

“It appears he fainted from shock.”

Sherlock surprisingly doesn’t argue the lie, so Mycroft moves to sit at his desk and they share a moment of silence where the possible consequences of recent events are considered. For the umpteenth time this evening, his hazel eyes scan Sherlock’s long hair, beard, and overall grossly unkempt appearance. A part of his cover, according to his sibling, but the visual alone makes Mycroft incredibly uncomfortable. He can only imagine how Sherlock feels: hot and filthy and struggling to survive. A rare pang of sentiment stabs at his heart. He wants his brother home. His lips turn up as said little brother scratches hastily under his armpit and Mycroft decides to quickly move the conversation along.

“So, as it stands, my teams have taken out the assassins that were watching Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Gregory Lestrade. All three are now under full-time security. You, yourself, have covered the nearest underlying sects of Moriarty’s network. How much do you believe is left?”

The screen goes fuzzy but smooths back out, straightening his brother’s face. “I’ve just dismantled the one here in Tunisia. Took me three weeks to get in, one day to get out.” 

“Yes, and you’ve been gone all of -” Mycroft glances over to his calendar.

“One hundred ninety-two days,” Sherlock says. 

The two men fall into silence again, Mycroft both hopeful and annoyed at the words that next come out of his mouth. “I believe, little brother, that perhaps it’s time you came home.”

Sherlock’s fuzzy face frowns. “I don’t know Mycroft. They’re still out there, who knows how many, and once I come back, it will be too late. They’ll know I’m alive.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs, “the element of surprise will be gone.” He glances over at the prone figure lying on his rug and wrinkles his brow, “But if you want the truth, I’m not sure how long your blogger will last if you don’t.”

His brother rolls his eyes, “Don’t be absurd Mycroft. John can be naive and often foolish when it comes to sentiment, but anytime there's an instance of danger he’s formidable and strong and -”

Mycroft turns the computer camera toward the doctor.

“Oh. Right,” a pause, “Why is he naked?”

Now it’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes as he turns the camera back to himself. “The point is, Sherlock, Doctor Watson is not well and I believe -” he hesitates, a mistake, “it would do him well if you came back to assist him.”

“Assist him. You speak as if he has an ailment.” Mycroft doesn’t reply immediately and Sherlock visibly stiffens, his jaw clenching. “Something’s not right. Tell me.”

Mycroft pours a hefty glass of scotch and settles deeper into his chair, not looking forward to this part of the conversation. The truth. 

“I’ve been monitoring him, as you asked. Cameras in the flat. At his job. CCTV watching him beyond.” Sherlock’s face glitches with the screen but he sits silently, listening intently. “The first couple of months was rather busy. The doctor mourned you as best he could but the media created a spectacle with your unfortunate demise. They camped outside your flat night after night. This lasted for several weeks. The doctor had not a moment’s peace. Even when he left for work, they followed.”

“About the fourth month, he quit his job, stopped answering the door, and sheltered himself inside. Locked everyone out, refusing to acknowledge their presence. Your landlady left food on the landing for him, but it went untouched as your friend instead found solace in a bottle.”

Both men sit silently, likely thinking along the same lines of how alcoholism is prominent in John’s family and how bad things had to be for him to take up the habit. Mycroft lifts his drink to swallow down his own thoughts on the matter. 

“I believe it was a few weeks later that Detective Lestrade pulled him into Scotland Yard for questioning.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock sputters.

“Well, apparently one of your unsolved cases came back to bite him. To go with the flow of negative press, the widow of a man who you once tried to help accused you and Doctor Watson of foul play. I believe there were illegal narcotics involved which were thought to have come from you. Detective Lestrade, of course, didn’t think him guilty, but he still had to do his job.”

“The Twice Spiked Mead,” Sherlock says, “John never finished writing that one. And you don’t have to defend Gavin. I know he wouldn’t arrest John.”

Mycroft twists his lips, both at the blatant incorrect usage of Gregory’s name and at the tinge of frustration he feels for wanting to defend it. He instead continues with his story.

“Regardless, the doctor didn’t take this event well and it was about this time that I began fearing for his health.” Sherlock sits up straighter at these words. “I watched Baker Street for a bit longer and noticed that the doctor only ever slept or drank. He never ate. He never left the flat. Then two weeks ago, he took out his gun.” 

The sharp sound of a crash and shattered glass echoes through the speaker and Sherlock's camera shakes violently. There's a flurry of blurs and then quite suddenly, Sherlock's still again, sitting back in his chair. He looks pained and exhausted and, to Mycroft’s displeasure, he lowers his head into his hands grabbing fistfuls of his long hair pulling it tightly. Mycroft sits silently, his face as hard as stone at the sound of his brother's breaths rasping through the computer speakers like anxious codes of static. There’s a moment of silence where he's not sure if he should continue but then Sherlock sits back up and nods, making his best effort to look composed, for a vagabond. 

“He would sit holding the weapon, doing nothing else for days, just staring at your chair, drinking. I had hoped it was just a phase but when he began to pace and talk to you, or to your ghost, I decided to pay him a visit.” 

“I can’t imagine that went over well,” he snaps.

Mycroft shrugs, “I rather thought it did, actually. We spoke, he put a gun to my head, and I knocked him out with my umbrella. Could’ve been worse.”

“You are a bastard. A complete and utter bastard,” Sherlock says with barely contained anger. “You told me he’d been marked by a rogue agent and you took him until you could neutralize the threat. And instead, you’ve been keeping _this_ from me."

“It’s for his own good."

"But he's been struggling and in pain all this time -”

"And what would you have done, Sherlock? Come back to London? Get murdered while nursing your poor blogger's feelings?” Mycroft says snidely.

“If that’s what it took! Then yes!”

“That’s not the point!” 

“No! The point is to _save_ John Watson, not to watch him kill himself!”

Both men take a breath, realizing their ridiculous antics aren’t helping. Mycroft raises his head, not at all willing to apologize, while Sherlock nearly snarls in his attempt to continue a civilized conversation. 

“That still doesn’t explain why he’s lying naked on your office floor,” Sherlock says through clenched teeth.

“A misunderstanding,” Mycroft replies.

Sherlock nearly goes off again but catches himself and, taking a loud deep breath, he concedes, “Fine. But are you certain? Pulling me right now could still endanger -”

“I am,” Mycroft says, his hard eyes now assessing the pale naked doctor, both thanking him and despising him for putting him in this position, “John Watson is a good man and I owe him a great debt for keeping you sober during the time you had together, but I do not hold the same sentiment for him that you do.” 

“All the more reason for me to come home,” his brother’s voice says from the screen.

“Indeed.”

Sherlock grumbles something under his breath and rubs the bridge of his nose, “Shall we make it official then?”

Mycroft nods, “Yes, I suppose we should.”

“Mission aborted,” Sherlock says. “Alfa - Romeo - Sierra - Echo.”

Mycroft smiles thinly, “Such a child. I’m arranging your transportation now and will forward it to you immediately. With any luck, you’ll be back in London at 0900 hours.” 

There’s a click followed by the ‘call ended’ screen and Mycroft sits back in his chair feeling lighter than he has in months.


	5. Dirty Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gags. Sherlock gets naked. Really tall beds - take two.

After a two hour trek through the scorching Sahara Desert, another half hour jeep ride over the dustiest, worst-kept road known to man, and a four-hour ride in the belly of a small plane back to London, Sherlock can’t blame Anthea for wrinkling her nose and rolling down the windows of the limo. If he were able to smell himself, he’s sure he’d agree it’s definitely not pleasant. 

“How long have you gone without -”

“Just over two months,” he replies.

There’s a half-groaning half-gagging sound but beyond that, the ride, as usual, is silent. Anthea types on her phone. The privacy glass separates them from the driver. The familiar sounds of horns honking and city life swells around him. It’s heavenly.

But the pleasure doesn’t last as Sherlock’s mind, as usual, first and foremost, goes to John. Strong, dependable, kind John - who isn’t doing well at all. The memory of Mycroft’s recollection of events causes something cold and hard to settle uncomfortably in his stomach. Not just because John regressed back into his depression, but because Sherlock didn’t really think his death would affect his friend that much.

This faux pas he would normally connect to a slip in his deductive reasoning. But as he’s been at the top of his game for the past seven months, infiltrating the most secure underground networks and eliminating the most dangerous of enemies, he knows that in reality, it’s simply the result of a massive cock-up. More or less him being an idiot. 

He doesn’t have time to ponder further as the limo pulls up at Mycroft’s country home and Anthea dashes out, calling back for him to use the back entrance and leaving him to make his own way into the house. Climbing out of the car, he shuts the door and straightens his dingy bloodstained tunic before heading inside. 

Bethany leads him to a large en-suite restroom while Rosemary brings in a tray of tea. Both women are averagely pretty, quiet, respectful, and professional in all regards. Given their muscle definition, they’re likely also trained in some form of combat. Mycroft would be so prudent. Rosemary pours him a cuppa, obviously holding her breath, then releases it with a yelp as she bumps into Mycroft on her way out.

Immediately, Mycroft coughs and puts his hand to his face. “Oh, dear god! Sherlock, that’s disgusting!”

Sherlock, completely unbothered, reclines in a feather-white wingback chair and takes up his tea eyeing his brother: typical bespoke suit, old shoes but freshly shined, hair combed in an attempt to hide his receding hairline. It’s apparently an office day but there’s something different. The hair, it speaks of effort, a suggestion that he’s expecting to see someone he wants to impress. Gross. He shuts the thought down quickly.

“Fancy meeting you here, brother mine. And I thought you wouldn’t dare grace me with your presence until I’d bathed.”

“Yes, well, Anthea sent advance warning I shouldn’t receive you in the main part of the house.”

Mycroft tries taking a breath through his mouth and gags under his hand. Sherlock can’t help but smile wickedly and slip off a shoe, kicking it toward his brother who jumps out of the way like he’s being attacked. Sherlock laughs aloud and wiggles his toes under dirt and sweat-stained blackened socks.

“Christ, Sherlock. How long has it been since -”

“Just over two months,” he says with a smile.

“Eugh, well, it’s nothing to be proud of.” Mycroft stops suddenly and stares at him alarmingly, “You didn’t do it on purpose, did you? For an experiment or some such?”

“No, I just didn’t have time. Or water.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows and fingers a large hole in his pants, having far too much fun taunting his brother to stop now. “But, color me impressed that you’re brave enough to join me, or is this an attempt to put yourself off food in aid of your floundering diet?”

“I’d rather hoped we could speak about Doctor Watson as you tend to your ablutions,” Mycroft says, flipping on the vent fan and grabbing a hand towel placing it tightly over his nose and mouth. He then pulls open a drawer and spritzes something sweet from a tiny container, giving it a moment, then spraying some more before taking down his towel and looking only mildly satisfied. Sherlock watches all this silently and glowers as his brother blinks innocently, “It’s the best I can do to minimize the smell of rot.” 

“You really do know how to take the fun out of things.” 

Sherlock takes another long sip of his tea just as the barber comes in, stopping dead in the middle of the room. The poor man then turns to Mycroft and addresses him in a whisper, “Sir, might I suggest the young man take a shower both before and after the haircut?”

Mycroft clears his throat and nods, “Of course. I’m not so cruel as to force that on you. It also gives me time to have the chair thrown out.”

Sherlock rubs his filthy hands down the pristine arms of said chair, "It really is quite nice. The fabric is soft, the cushion supple. Must’ve cost a pretty penny." He looks up but his brother is still there looking nonplussed at his antics. With a heavy sigh, he stands and begins stripping off, “Talk then, if you feel you must, but I can’t fathom what you could possibly say that we haven’t already covered or that I don’t already know,” he says stalking over bare assed to turn on the taps.

Mycroft turns his back while Sherlock tests the temperature and slips into the shower. “I won’t be long, trust me. I just wanted to advise that your meeting with Doctor Watson, as a _living person_ , could very well exacerbate his condition.”

“I’m not daft, Mycroft,” he shouts through the glass door as he lathers his long, thick hair, “I intend to be very gentle with him. Which reminds me, who removed him from your office floor last night?”

“I did.” Sherlock can hear the displeasure in his brother’s voice. It makes him smile. “It was bloody awful. For someone so small in stature, he’s terribly heavy.”

“ _Oh, dear. Mikey had to do some legwork_ ,” Sherlock whines at him, “Heaven forbid you break a sweat.”

“Yes, and I had to drag him up all those stairs and lift him onto that ridiculously high bed,” Mycroft agrees petulantly.

“All your beds are high.”

“Mine’s not.”

“Just proves you can’t be bothered to furnish your own house. So, not that I don’t believe you, which I don’t, but did he really faint?” Sherlock asks, rinsing and repeating then reaching for the overpriced body wash. 

Mycroft pauses then sighs heavily, as he is wont to do, “No, Bethany hit him over the head with a cake pan.”

A sponged hand pauses over Sherlock’s chest, bubbles dripping down his calves and onto his toes. He can feel his brother’s glare and it tickles him beyond belief. “I have no words.”

There’s a peculiar silence where Mycroft attempts to regain his cool over the sound of splashing water and the grind of a hard soapy loofah stripping Sherlock of every ounce of dirt. It feels amazing. He can't wait to look and feel human again. He can't wait to be alive again. He misses his loft and his experiments and the cases - and John. 

“He woke, briefly," Mycroft says, dragging Sherlock from his mini-daydream, "but seemed very angry and confused. I couldn’t get him to eat, so I had Ricardson, our personal physician, check him out.”

“Dear God, he’s still alive?”

“Yes, and doing rather well for a man of ninety-nine,” Mycroft confirms, sounding in awe. “Anyway, he said your doctor is far too weak to go much longer without proper sustenance and care or he could sustain serious damage.” 

Sherlock frowns at the diagnosis. John is a doctor and as such, has always been very keen on keeping himself, and as often as possible Sherlock, in the best shape. 'To continue the work,' he always said, knowing Sherlock wouldn't put up too much of a fight. But to let himself fall this far into disrepair is both highly out of character and distressing to everyone involved. But it will be fine. Sherlock and John will simply switch roles for a bit. There’s then a heavy lull in the conversation, too heavy, and because he knows Mycroft hasn’t left, Sherlock senses his hesitation - his brother’s tell when something’s a bit not good. Mycroft is good at lying, does it for a living, but in most cases, he prefers to not speak at all as lying by omission is far safer. Only lies have details. But when he does feel the urge to share something bad, he hesitates, taking several long minutes in order to manage the backlash.

“Just spit it out already,” Sherlock growls squeezing the sponge, watching the water below him rinse a dark brown before running clear.

“I just thought you should know that, for everyone’s protection, I did have him restrained.”

The water shuts off and Sherlock steps from the bath, his eyes hard. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Any of your staff?”

“No. But he did burst in last night with a weapon.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raises a brow, his mind going to the various swords and pistols his brother has laying about which he likes to call ‘antiques’ and wondering which one John chose. 

“Yes. A . . .” Mycroft hesitates. Sherlock waits. “A fountain pen.”

Both men stare at each other in silence. It sounds so stupid, and not just because Mycroft said it, that once again Sherlock has no words. He reaches for a towel and wraps it around his waist, a chuckle escaping him, and he can’t help but mutter “a fountain pen” under his breath as he searches for a second towel to dry his hair. 

Mycroft scoffs and shuffles his feet, “He was obviously not in his right mind. Not to mention, he was a Captain in the British Army and could surely kill me with far less if he were so inclined.”

Sherlock chuckles again but nods, finding another towel rubbing it roughly over his head, “And he still may, considering what you’ve put him through.”

“What _we’ve_ put him through.”

That stings and his face twitches in a wince. “It was for his safety.”

“Say what you want to assuage your guilt, little brother, but pray don’t hold too much hope that your imminent return from death will ensure his forgiveness.” 

Sherlock jerks his head up in surprise, “And why wouldn’t it? I died to save his life whereas you spent months pretending he didn’t exist, up until yesterday where you barged into his home, patronized him for having feelings, then knocked him unconscious and dragged him here to be locked away like a lunatic.”

Mycroft tugs at his coat lapels and straightens his back, the smug bastard, “I don’t expect you to see the gravity of the situation, but it _was_ for his protection.” When Sherlock just waves him off, Mycroft narrows his eyes and steps forward, obviously determined to force his monotonous whinging onto him, “So you’d rather I injure your friend? Stab him or shoot him in self-defense?”

At this, Sherlock stills but doesn’t look up. The threat is empty. He knows Mycroft would never hurt John Watson. And he had taken the safest possible precautions for John when he could’ve left him to die at Baker Street. Perhaps he should thank his brother for taking steps above and beyond what Sherlock had asked before he left. 

_Will you keep an eye on him? -- SH_

_I will do my best, brother mine._

The idea rankles and Sherlock flinches back to reality at another of Mycroft’s sighs. “What I’ve done, Sherlock, I’ve done for you. I monitored the man without his knowledge. I collected him when he became a threat to his own life. I strapped him to his own bed in order to keep him safe until you arrived.” Mycroft swallows and purses his lips in agitation. “I’ve done my due diligence, but don’t confuse your relationship with John Watson for mine.”

He’s right. The prat. But Sherlock won’t admit it, not aloud anyway. Instead, he drops his towel on the floor and moves to sit in the barber’s chair. “You can send in the barber now. And have someone bring me some clothes, unless you want me running around in nothing but a sheet.” There’s a strained beat as his brother turns to leave, then, “Mycroft,” Sherlock calls, “My coming back, it’s not John’s fault. You can’t blame him.”

Silence follows his statement but he knows he was heard, so Sherlock lays back, lost in deep thought while the barber works a miracle. Once done, he stares at the long dark locks covering the floor and automatically reaches up, feeling strange without all the hair. Now on autopilot, he rinses off once more, dresses, then heads up the stairs and stands just outside the dark wooden door. 

John’s in there. His John. _This is it. You can do this. It’ll be fine._ And it will be. It has to be. He takes a deep breath, pushes the handle down and steps inside. 


	6. Cold Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00-Lestrade! John is restrained. Mycroft can't catch a break.

Greg Lestrade can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, the red analogue clock mocking him as it refuses to change. But he gives it a go, closing his eyes and breathing deep in the hope he gets a smidgen of rest. He even tries for a quick wank, but apparently, his mind and body won’t cooperate and he’s left overly warm and staring at the ceiling.

At four a.m., he gives up and trudges to the kitchen on thick legs to start coffee. Cup in hand, he sits in the living room where the long black hands on the wall clock seem frozen in time. To distract himself, his mind replays the events of last night. 

The call from an unknown number - “Is this DI Greg Lestrade? A man’s been attacked on the corner of Euston and Gower. You’ll want to be there.” Then there was the fake police and medics at the scene. Finding an injured John. Seeing Mycroft again. It all comes too fast to process, so he focuses on one thing at a time. 

Mycroft Holmes. Greg’s not sure how to feel about the man. They’d first met during the Downing Street Murders, a case Sherlock worked on despite his brother’s insistence otherwise. Greg, Sherlock, and John had just trapped the murderer of the Prime Minister’s son’s fiancee in an old warehouse by the docks when they were suddenly surrounded by what Greg likes to call, Men in Black (the mysterious government official had apparently sent in his own strike team, taken out the spurned young woman, and created a cover so there would be no connection to the Prime Minister’s family.) The three were then stuffed into a black sedan and threatened to never speak of what just happened. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and touted about leaving his brother with an apparently incorrigible aunt for Christmas, while John and Greg looked on, both content to sit quietly and let the two argue things out. But whereas John had the protection of Sherlock, Greg was more a third wheel and open target. 

And not long after, his vulnerable position came into stark context when a beautiful young woman strolled into Scotland Yard, like she owned the place, to hand-deliver an invitation to a dinner party in Hampstead. “Wear your best suit,” was all she said. Inside the envelope was a small piece of jewelry. 

Two days later, he was the ‘date’ of the most powerful man in Britain. As instructed, he wore his best suit and the expensive-looking tie pin he’d been gifted. For hours, Greg dutifully followed Mycroft as he navigated the posh mansion and introduced him to what were obviously very powerful and dangerous people. It was all very nice and Mycroft was quite charming, even when he threatened Greg during the ride home, “You were wonderful tonight Gregory. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon, so long as you do as you’re told.”

Now, Greg is man enough to admit that Mycroft scares him. Sherlock once told him that his brother holds a minor position in the British Government, but after that night, Greg has a feeling his position isn’t minor at all. That being said, he likes Mycroft, well, he wants to like him. He's fascinated by him. Drawn to him. He just doesn’t really know if he can trust him. Power can be an attractive quality, the thought makes Greg blush, but that much power is a bit terrifying. 

Five fifteen a.m. Greg takes a sip of his coffee. It’s cold. With a grimace he sets off to refill his cup and, upon his return, reaches for the remote to the tele. Flip. Flip. Flip. There’s nothing on. He shuts it off and takes another drink, burning his lip. His mind wanders again.

John Watson. He’s always liked John. A good man; strong and resilient. Would make a good cop. But he worked with Sherlock, God rest his soul. And though Sherlock was brilliant in his own way, John had the amazing ability to tolerate the ‘humble’ genius. But it wasn’t just tolerance, no, John also forced Sherlock to slow down, to focus on more than just the work. He calmed the raging beast, cured the festering urges, -- John Watson was the rock that kept him grounded, the hand that kept him steady. Greg wishes the two could’ve seen what he saw. But it’s too little too late. Anyway, after spending years getting to know the good doctor, Greg now considers John his friend. They used to go for drinks. Talk about women and work and Sherlock, their shared work-wife. 

After Sherlock’s death, Greg visited John once a week, every week. John was quiet but kind considering the circumstances. Greg did his best to run off the press that camped outside the flat, but only so much could be done. Not long after, John became short and cold and often, when Greg would go visit, he’d find the door locked with no one answering. Mrs. Hudson offered little help herself, “Sherlock’s brother takes care of the rent now, but I don’t see hide-nor-hair of the doctor anymore, and I worry so much about him.”

Greg worried too, but he also respected John’s plea for privacy. So he stopped visiting. He buried himself in work as much as he could until one night he found John pissed off his ass at the local pub they used to frequent. The encounter might’ve been fine except John obviously wasn’t himself, talking to Sherlock as if he were still here, and Greg could see he’d lost far too much weight. Grudgingly, he took his friend back to his flat and asked for the Browning he knew the doctor illegally kept. Shortly after, he was kicked out of the flat and told not to come back. 

Since then, Greg has lived in fear of getting a call that told of the end of John Watson. And the night that call came, he relived the same dread he felt when Sherlock had died. The only difference being that, with Sherlock, it was too late. 

Greg takes another sip of his coffee and grimaces. It’s cold. Again. The clock says five to six and to him, that’s close enough to startin’ time. Making his way to the bedroom, he pulls on his jeans, an undershirt, and a sweater and prepares for a long Saturday at work. While he’s tying his sneakers, a tiny stream of sunlight escapes the slats of his blinds and flashes on something to his right. The tie pin sits undisturbed on his bedside table, a single diamond flanked by a gold bar sparkles in the light. Greg stares intently at the pin and his mind stutters and stalls on Mycroft Holmes and John Watson and recent events. He knows what he wants to do. He knows what he should do. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He finishes tying his shoes and sits up. The jewelry twinkles again, mocking him, and he sighs heavily. 

*******

Took him nearly two hours to get here, after stopping by the Yard to collect his handgun and fetch a coffee, enjoying how hot it was while taking several wrong turns. Took him another thirty minutes to summon up the courage to drive through the gate and onto the property. Although he’s only been to Mycroft’s home once, last night, in the dark, during a mini-crisis, he remembers the route as he left in one of Mycroft’s ritzy cars. Now, ironically enough, the Detective Inspector’s only worry is how many secret agents are tracking him through high-powered scopes attached to military-grade sniper rifles.

Tossing the empty coffee cup, Greg grows a pair, gets out of the car and knocks on the front door. Because it’s the polite thing to do, he waits patiently but no one answers and, because he’s technically off the clock, he might as well try the handle. Coincidentally, it’s unlocked, so he lets himself in and quietly pulls the door to behind him. A long deep breath escapes him. Not filled with bullets yet. 

A quick glance around lets him know he’s alone, so he heads immediately to Mycroft’s office where they spoke last night. As he enters the hall, the memory of their conversation replays.

_“It’s truly good fortune you found John tonight.”_

_Greg blinks and wrinkles his brow, “Is it? Because it seems you meant for me to find him.”_

_“Not as dim as one might think,” Mycroft smiles lazily and pours a drink, passing it to Greg who refuses. “I would be remiss in my duties to my late brother if I wished ill on the doctor.”_

_“And yet we’re here, instead of at hospital,” Greg swings an arm to the tidy office, complete with mahogany desk and crackling fireplace and hidden safe, er . . . somewhere._

_“Yes, because of past situations, but can you blame me if I prefer Doctor Watson, or yourself, to be safe and secure? Not to mention, I can afford the best physicians on the planet, if need be.”_

_Greg nods, “Yeah, I suppose that makes sense.”_

_“It also allows me to have you here. Somewhere private.”_

_“Um, why?” Greg asks, confused._

_“Your company, of course.” Mycroft advances, his hazel eyes dancing in the firelight, “I recall it’s been some time since we last met.”_

_Greg huffs and rubs the back of his neck, “I figured you were just talking. Prolly had better things to do, you know.”_

_Mycroft stops a hair's-breadth away from him, “I always have better things to do.”_

_And if ever there’s a way to put a man in his place, this is surely it. Greg knows Mycroft is out of his league, he just didn’t expect the fact to be thrown in his face. But, ever the gentleman, Mycroft recants, leaning forward so that Greg can smell the faint hint of aftershave. And when the man next speaks, his voice is soft like honey, taking away the sting._

_“There are always things Gregory, but they are rarely enjoyable things. Such as this.”_

The squeak of the door opening brings him back and Greg finds the room empty, a slight breeze from the open window stirring the curtains. His eyes catch on the screen of an open laptop and curiously, he moves toward the desk. What he sees stops him dead. He shakes his head in the negative because what he sees can’t be what he’s seeing. And what he sees is John Watson strapped to the bed he and Mycroft left him in last night. Greg swallows thickly and turns the screen for a better angle. Christ. John Watson _is_ there. The red record button is glowing. This is real.

“Oh, bloody hell. Oh no.”

“Gregory, what are you doing here?”

The sudden voice startles the DI so much that he stumbles precariously before grabbing his gun and levelling it at the enemy. Mycroft Holmes, clad in an impressively form-fitting shirt and waistcoat, scans the room with flashing eyes. He then looks back to Greg and slowly moves toward the opposite side of the desk.

“Don’t come any closer.” 

Mycroft very calmly puts his hands up but takes another tentative step, almost as if he’s testing him. 

“I will shoot you, Mycroft.” Greg releases the safety from his gun, hand completely steady even though this is the last person he wants to hold at gunpoint. He glances back down to the computer just to make sure he really isn’t seeing things then looks quickly back. “I came to check on John. Had a feelin’, you know.”

“And the doctor is perfectly fine, I assure you,” Mycroft placates.

“Oh, you assure me? That sounds a lot like a lie. Especially since you’re keeping him here, by the looks of it, against his will.” 

“Very astute of you, inspector. But I do swear to you that all is not as it seems.” 

“Don’t patronize me,” Lestrade snaps, taking a step forward to which Mycroft takes a step back. 

“Fine,” Mycroft agrees reluctantly, “and I feel I’ve been saying this far too often lately, but this is for his own good Gregory. Doctor Watson was on the verge of taking his own life. I did what I had to to protect him.” 

“By keeping him locked up as your prisoner?” Lestrade takes another step forward, gradually backing the ginger man into the corner.

“Truly, that was never my intention. I was only ever keeping him here for a time,” Mycroft pauses and then takes another step back, “doing what I could to make him understand what a ridiculous mistake he was making.”

Lestrade shakes his head, “I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth you silly man.”

Lestrade frowns and moves his arm to the side pulling the trigger. A bullet pierces the dark red wood of the office door a few inches to Mycroft’s left and the ginger-haired man flinches away, his hands shaking as his back hits the wall. 

“Was that really necessary?” Mycroft sputters, eyes wide.

“You tell me. Now, I might not be the best shot, but I’ve got twenty-three more tries if you really wanna be stubborn.” Greg raises a confident brow, “You’re smart, Mycroft. I’m sure you agree that either way, my odds are better than yours.”

“Right. Fine. Unfortunately, after you left last night, matters took a turn for the worse and methods had to be . . . adjusted accordingly.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

Mycroft sighs, “The doctor became violent. He was a danger not only to me but to himself.” 

“And?” 

Mycroft hesitates and Lestrade points the gun in the area of his kneecaps.

“All right, all right!” he says, bending forward to ward off the possible projectile. “There was a need for restraints, eventually both physical and chemical, but he’s fine. He’s currently on a low dose of lorazepam.”

“You have no right!” Lestrade bares his teeth and stalks forward, their faces inches apart. Mycroft tilts his chin up in defiance, his eyes dilated to pinpricks, but he doesn’t move as the gun is pressed firmly into his ribs. “And call me crazy, but I still don’t believe you. Now, we’re gonna go see John, the both of us, and there won’t be any hysterics. Do you understand?”

Mycroft huffs indignantly and straightens his spine, his hot breath ghosting over Greg’s neck. “I do not do hysterics.”

Greg smiles, “Good.”

-

-

The walk from the office, up the stairs, and to the bedroom door are uneventful with the press of his Glock 17 to the elder Holmes’ back. Both men pause outside the door at the sound of voices coming from within.

Mycroft turns to him looking nervous, “Are you certain you won’t rethink this Gregory?”

“What? Why would I -” he shakes his head as the voices get louder, “Who’s in there? Mycroft, who’s in there with Jo-”

Greg doesn’t get to finish his sentence because the door flings open and, right before his eyes, he watches John Watson come flying out, face contorted in rage and his fists filled with the shirt of none other than Sherlock Holmes. 


	7. Tosspots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Johns attack. Bad analogies. They're all a bit sad.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. Or at least that’s what Sherlock tells himself as he restrains the emaciated form of his best friend so he can’t rip out his throat. He really hadn’t imagined things going this way at all. Not after he’d entered the room and John, although somewhat drugged (sodding Mycroft) seemed content to just talk to him as if everything were normal. Sherlock even felt secure enough to remove the straps holding his friend to the bed, which as it happens, turned out to be a mistake.

He’s not sure if John was just buying his time until someone released him or if it was the glide of Sherlock’s fingers over his hand while undoing the straps, but the moment he’d been freed, something changed. It was quick, John sliding from the tall bed, bloodshot eyes intent as he advanced. Then came the punch. A right hook, unexpected as the doctor is a leftie, but it hurt nonetheless. The effort left his friend weak and Sherlock barely had time to stumble back to the door and yank it open before the angry blonde was on him again. 

But it’s fine. They’re here now, struggling on the floor, and Sherlock just needs to not use too much pressure while holding John’s arms behind his back or squeeze too tightly securing his head while the delirious doctor squirms over Sherlock's chest where they landed in the middle of the hall. 

John’s face is muffled in the collar of Sherlock’s borrowed sweater but he will never forget his friend’s anguished words, “ _No. It’s not you. You’re not real. Yuh- you’re dead. I killed you. I killed you_.” And it’s hateful. The pain and the sentiment and the guilt he feels because - he did this to John. This is all his fault and, somehow, he has to fix it. 

“John, it’s me. It’s Sherlock.” The doctor growls in the negative and thrashes but Sherlock holds his wriggling friend flush against him, “It’s true, John. Just listen. _Observe_ the truth,” he begs. “You can hear my heart beating in my chest. You can feel my voice vibrating when I speak. You nearly broke my nose with your fist,” Sherlock smiles a sad smile, “I’m real, John. I’m real - and I’m here.” 

And to his horror, it gets worse. John begins to shake and releases a deep painful cry. Fear makes Sherlock quickly release his wrists, allowing the man to do what he will, but his friend is so weak that all he can do is tremble and grasp lightly at Sherlock’s shoulder. He feels warm tears fall on his neck and he can’t help when his own eyes water at the anguished sounds. 

“I’m alive, John. You didn’t kill me. You didn’t.”

Overwhelming emotion suddenly encompasses him, and his own hands slide up to grip the back of John’s shirt holding him tight. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Sherlock’s head hits the floor with a thump and he stares up at the ceiling, trying and failing to calm his errant emotions. He takes a deep breath and speaks soft calm reassurances until John finally starts to settle and finally goes limp. The sound of someone clearing their throat makes him turn his head. 

“Not that I derive any pleasure, whatsoever, from saying this, but,” Mycroft leans in slightly, “I told you so.” 

“Of course, you just have to be here,” Sherlock grumbles.

“To witness your pathetic emotional release, always.”

Lestrade, finally done staring dumbly at Sherlock, turns to Mycroft, “What’s wrong with you? Is this how you treat everyone?”

Mycroft stands startled and confused at the outburst and looks lost for words; even Sherlock is taken aback. “I’m not sure what you mean Gregory.”

“Don’t you _Gregory_ me. It’s all just a game to you innit?” Lestrade says, “Bein’ all charming and showing someone a good time just to make them jump when you snap.”

“Gre-” Mycroft goes red, “that wasn’t -”

“Well I’m not your puppet,” he growls, “and I won’t listen to any more of your lies.”

Mycroft shakes his head, “I’ve never lied to you.” Lestrade raises his gun to Mycroft’s chest making the tall man stutter, “N- not directly, anyway.”

Lestrade’s face falls and he lowers the weapon to his side, “It might not matter that much to you, but to me, that’s enough.”

There’s a moment of heavy bewildering silence where Lestrade stands disappointed and Mycroft, surprisingly, looks chagrined. His brother bites his lip and stares at the DI so imploringly that Sherlock wonders if Mycroft’s putting him on. But he quickly realizes it’s all very real when Lestrade turns to leave, and his brother mutters a soft, “I’m sorry” at his back. 

Sherlock is all teeth, fully prepared to laugh in his brother’s face at his disastrous romantic failings when Lestrade stops suddenly at the end of the hall and turns back around.

“And Sherlock, it’s nice to see you not being dead. Welcome back. You’ll take care of John then.”

Sherlock raises his chin in acknowledgement. Lestrade nods and leaves the two brothers alone in the now quiet and uneventful hallway. 

“Well, that was fun,” Sherlock says, “I honestly thought he was going somewhere else with that.”

“As did I,” Mycroft replies sullenly. 

“Like kidnapping John Watson or being a giant prat to your poor brother.”

“Yes, you are obviously the lesser of the two of us.”

“And he got the analogy wrong,” Sherlock points out.

“Mmm, dogs and puppets. At least he tried.”

There’s a pause, then, “This is all your fault.”

“Oh, no!” Mycroft cries, “This time, it is most definitely _your_ fault.”

“Yes, because once again, it was _me_ who allowed a civilian into _my_ home where they were made privy to _my_ very secure and very confidential state secrets.”

“You’re the one who tumbled into the hallway right under his nose.”

“Still your fault.”

Mycroft turns cold eyes on him but Sherlock ignores him in favor of turning his head to see John’s now sleeping face smashed against his chest, soft snores and saliva escaping his pink lips. 

“Well, that turned out all right,” he says and, with a slight hiss, Sherlock wipes the blood from his busted nose and lays his hands to the side wiping them on the very expensive rug, tapping his fingers in contemplation. “You need to fix that, however you see fit, but soon. We can’t have Lestrade running back with the news I’ve risen from the dead.”

“Not just yet anyway.”

“You have a plan then?”

Mycroft sighs heavily, “I suppose I must,” he says, standing staring at the two men lying sprawled on his rug. A frown mars his lips when he spies the crimson smears from Sherlock’s fingers over the rare silk fibers. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“I’ll give you that one.” 

Both men pause in acceptance of the moment, then, “I’ll send the girls with a medical kit and some tea.” Mycroft says.

“Yes, I’d hate for you to lapse into another pathetic emotional release, ‘ _Oh, I’m sorry Gregory_ ,’” Sherlock mimics his brother’s earlier plea.

“I do not sound like -”

“What? A sad and disgusting romantically jilted tosspot? Do so.”

Mycroft is near seething now. “If you weren’t my brother -”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’d take immense pleasure in dismembering my body and then roasting marshmallows over my burning bits. But really Mycroft, it’s just tit for tat. Pot and kettle,” Sherlock blinks faux worried eyes up at him, “I really do fear you’re allowing your emotions to get the better of you brother.” 

With a growl, Mycroft turns on his heel and stalks away. Sherlock smiles. “Yes, please do piss off Mycroft.”


	8. Session #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The therapy tapes of Mrs. Hudson.

Session #1 with one Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson

6th December 2017

10:45 a.m.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve known Sherlock to become obsessed with things. The particular misspelling of a word, a very potent acid he melted my best crockery with, the differences between various types of ash -- the last I really don’t understand . . .”

“Obsessed. An interesting description.”

“But those were related to a case he was working on, you see, and perfectly normal.”

“So, he doesn’t obsess over other things? Normal, everyday things?”

“There are things outside of work he obsesses over, like the particular parting of his brother’s hair or wearing the exact same coat and scarf when he goes out. Silly things.”

“But there’s something else.”

“Well, I was a bit taken aback when he popped back home, _alive_ , mind you, with an injured Doctor Watson in his arms, the poor dear man.” 

“I can see how that would be upsetting.” A pause, then, “Do you believe Mr. Holmes had anything to do with Doctor Watson’s injuries?”

“Oh, goodness no! Never! Those two - they're two peas in a pod, those two. They would die for each other.”

“So what happened when they came home?”

“Well,” a smile, “It’s the sweetest thing, I tell you, how he never leaves John’s side. Tends his wound. Brings him food and tea. Helps him to the restroom. Oh, that was hilarious! Watching John slam the door in his face, screeching that he refuses to let Sherlock watch him wee.”

“So Doctor Watson isn't taking it well.”

“Well, I’m sure John wouldn’t be too put off by it all, except that he’s still in a bit of a shock by his friend being alive and, well, Sherlock’s attentions are constant. The poor doctor doesn’t get a moment’s peace. Sherlock hovers, all clingy like a mollusk, or . . . whatever those things are that attach to ships.”

“Barnacles?”

“Sure, why not? But I understand. Sherlock is there constantly. Day and night. And the way he follows John with his eyes . . .”

“So, you admit that your freshly risen from the dead consulting detective tenant is -- creepy?”

“Don’t you put words in my mouth, young man. This is an unusual action for him, to be sure, but there’s more there.”

“More than a deeply questionable obsession with his best friend?”

“Obviously. I see what no one else does.”

“And what’s that, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Emotion. Of course. Everyone else sees Sherlock as just a brain. But that’s not true at all. No, Sherlock’s a very emotional man, the more obvious examples being shooting my walls and stabbing the mantle, but the subtle ones, the ones that no one notices . . . I see those.”

“So Mr. Holmes has moments of extreme highs and lows.”

“Doesn’t everybody? I mean, he can seem impassive or even cold to other people -- and he gets downright giddy when there’s a murder, but with Doctor Watson he’s different. When they're together, there’s a shine in his eyes, a hitch in his breath, and most recently, he’s stopped answering back.”

“Really? He’s stopped answering back?”

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes is the most sarcastic, mouthy, incorrigible person you’re bound to meet in your lifetime, so when I say he’s quiet, submissive, and swallows his tongue no matter what John says - it’s significant.”

“So, you don’t consider his recent behavior toward Doctor Watson a problem?” 

“Oh, they’ll come around. They always do, those two.”


	9. Creature Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has bad dreams. Nanny Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft doesn't do favors.

There was blood. So much blood. It covered the pavement and his hands and no matter how hard he pressed he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop it. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening._ Terrified silver eyes stared back at him. He had to get help. He needed his medical bag. He had to stop the bleeding.

But he was alone. The streets were empty and darkness was descending. _I have to get him out of here. I have to save him._ He had to get help, and the blood - the blood continued to pour from his wounds, a large dark puddle spreading and reaching out, staining the pavement and him. 

He looked back again, to reassure him it would be all right. _I’m going to get help. I am going to save you._ But he laid so still. Not moving. Not breathing. His face slack, emotionless, as if asleep. A touch, to check his pulse, crimson hands over pale skin. He was gone. It was too late. 

“No. No, no, NO!” 

_“I’m sorry, John.”_

Christ, he could still hear it. Even after death. That baritone voice. But no. _He’s gone. Really gone._ He scooted away, as far as he could from the fear and the death and the loss. But the pain still followed. And the blood. There was so much blood now. His hands were so red. 

_“John, please -”_

John shook his head, “My fault . . . my fault. Sherlock. ‘S my fault.”

“John! I need you to wake up.” A shake jolts him, “Come on, John. Open your eyes.”

And he does, with a pained whine John shifts, his eyes blinking through the bleary light that shone from the bedside lamp. His friend sits on the bed next to him and he jumps, his breath hitching harshly. As if in a daze, John shakes his head, warm tears trailing down cold cheeks. _No, this can’t be real. You’re dead. I watched you die._

“But it is real, John. We’re both here at Baker Street. In your bedroom. I’m real,” the deep voice says. He then reaches out and grabs John’s hand, clasping it tightly between his own. John jolts at the contact but is held firm as a very much alive Sherlock Holmes leans his head down to look him in the eyes. “I’m alive. Feel me. Feel my hands.” Sherlock squeezes lightly and, to John's surprise, those long thin fingers reach out to wipe the wet from his face. 

He takes a moment to do as he’s told. To just sit and look at his friend who’s whole and unblemished. To feel the warmth of his skin. To grasp his thin wrist and take his pulse. He can feel it. It’s there. He’s here. And he’s real. And John feels suddenly exhausted. Not that he isn't used to this emotional rollercoaster every time he wakes up, it's just something else entirely to wake to the real thing. To have the person he's missed so damn much actually present and now, it's a whole other struggle to both want to strangle him and hold him in his arms. 

“You didn’t kill me, John.” 

The words are a plea, a sorrowful and repentant plea from a desperate man. And Sherlock looks sad. Worried even. His calloused fingers retrace John’s cheeks, but instead of wiping away the wet, they now pause and linger, glancing as a lover would. But it's just his imagination. So John closes his eyes, his breathing slowing as he revels in the dream, the fantasy that the person he cares about most in the world is here and alive and touching him. He wants this. Christ, he wants it so badly but knows it isn't real. It never will be because Sherlock doesn’t do feelings and regretfully, coming back from his fantasy, John blinks up into those crystalline eyes. 

“I punched you.”

It’s not what he wants to say, not even close, but Sherlock smiles and it makes the chasm in John's heart feel a little less cavernous. 

“You did. With your right hand,” he adds, but to John, this point doesn’t matter because he can’t take his eyes off his friend’s face. It’s perfect and not covered in blood. Sherlock frowns at him and his spindly fingers continue to shy softly over John’s cheeks, each pass lighting his skin with electric shocks. “And it was rightly deserved.”

John swallows thickly and shakes his head. Quickly, he reaches up and pulls his friend’s hands down, holding them over the duvet. “You died. I was cruel to you and I called you a machine and you died. And that was my fault. But you made me watch.” The words come out small, just like he feels and John has to struggle past what he says next. “You. Made. Me. Watch. And you knew it would kill me but you still did it.”

“Yes. And I’m sorry.”

The detective looks so pathetic and small but John has to know. “Why?”

Sherlock removes his hands and sits back as if preparing for a long, drawn-out explanation. “Moriarty had guns on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.”

John's brows raise at the brevity of his answer, “So . . . it was us or you.”

Sherlock nods.

“But why -- why did you make me do that? You could’ve told me. You could’ve -”

Sherlock hesitates, then, “It had to be believable.”

And John can't help but imagine Sherlock explaining this to him in a most sarcastic fashion. "This isn’t surprising, not really, John. Because, of course, it makes sense that if someone's planning to take down one of the most brilliant criminal minds in the world they'll want to make everything look _realistic_. It's a simple step-by-step process. So I die (but not really). I lie to my best friend about it, (the one person I'm supposed to trust). And for the finale, I do it right in front of him. Because it has to look _real_." And no matter how hard he tries, John can feel the anger slowly seeping back in full-force, his teeth grinding and his body rigid. 

“I don’t forgive you.” It comes out in a hiss, John’s body now literally vibrating. Sherlock merely nods again which only makes things worse. “I DON’T FORGIVE YOU!” he screams into the space of the bedroom, body shaking and heart aching. But it doesn’t help. He still feels horrible - and now Sherlock looks horrible - and it all just makes him feel worse. 

The two men sit through a long and painful silence. The clock ticks. Mrs. Hudson putters about downstairs. The bustle of the city beckons faintly through the windows. Sherlock doesn’t move to leave and John doesn’t tell him to. 

“Damn you, Holmes,” John says softly, too drained to be mad anymore. He sighs heavily, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry for everything and you don’t have to forgive me because I don’t forgive you and -” he stops abruptly and glares at his friend. “Actually, I’d rather not talk about it.” Both men lock eyes and John does a good job at ignoring what he thinks he sees. What he wants to see there. “Let’s just not talk.”

-

-

This is how John found himself at Baker Street with his not dead best friend four days ago. Even now, from his hiding spot in his room, he can hear the tall detective playing his violin in the downstairs sitting room. _Sherlock is alive._ But it doesn’t feel right. No, every time John wakes from the recurring nightmare of his friend’s demise, he’s confronted with something - not quite normal. And not just for the fact that his dream has become a reality, _no_ , but for the past four days, Sherlock has been. . . different. 

For the first time since his return to the flat, John decides to go downstairs, and what he finds there is beyond baffling. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are sitting having tea and chatting amicably. No frowning. No arguing. No insults. Just two men, enjoying each other’s company. And John's convinced he's entered an alternate reality. Both look up as he enters the room and John glances between them; Mycroft with a worrying smile on his lips and Sherlock with his tea midway between the saucer and his mouth. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just . . .” John jerks his thumb over his shoulder and backs up to leave but bumps into a stack of books, flailing awkwardly trying to right himself. 

Sherlock sets his tea down and jumps up, “John, let me -”

“No,” he says, righting himself and putting out an arm before the detective can reach him, “I’m fine.”

“Please, don’t leave on my account, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says standing, “I’m actually here to see you.”

“Why?” John asks warily.

“To see how you’re faring, of course.”

“Yeah, well, last time you came to check on me didn’t exactly end well.”

“Something for which I am deeply apologetic, I assure you,” Mycroft says, trying for sincere.

John grimaces at the lie and then at Sherlock who stands hovering, as close as he dares, next to John. “Well, as you can see he’s fine. So no need to linger,” Sherlock says to his brother. But even as he speaks, his own silver eyes track John’s every move, probably deducing how much rest he needs in order to up his white blood cell count by visually taking his pulse, measuring his breaths, and judging his temperature by the color of his skin. 

Mycroft ignores the obvious dismissal. “Yes, it does appear that you’re doing much better. Sherlock seems to be feeding you up.” Hazel eyes roam over him in the same calculating fashion of his brother before they stop on his face and the slowly healing head wound. The government official smiles wickedly, “Your head is feeling better, I presume.”

John’s brows raise in anticipation, “Even in my current state, I can still beat you bloody, Mycroft.” He moves to take a step forward but Sherlock’s there, effectively cutting him off with a hand on his stomach.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Sherlock directs to his brother, now using his whole body to make sure John stays put. 

The touch and having Sherlock this close, nearly right on him, makes John shiver, and as much as he likes it - wants it - it pisses him off. One, he's still mad for Sherlock lying to him. For making him believe he was dead. For hurting him. And that pain doesn't seem to be going away. Two, he shouldn't want his friend in this way. Idolizing his skills and abilities is one thing, but sneaking glances at his form, itching for his company, and yearning for physical contact of any kind . . . it just can't be. It's just transport. And three, John sure as hell shouldn't feel anything beyond friendship for this man. Never should John expect to seek romantic attention or reciprocation from Sherlock. Never should he desire love. The idea absurd because any type of relationship beyond friendship with Sherlock Holmes is an obvious road to heartbreak. And even that friendship, one John believed solid and honest, was as fragile as glass, shattering with the betrayal of the man John trusted above all. 

“On the contrary, it’s you who will be stepping out Sherlock so I can have a word with Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says snidely, breaking John from his thoughts.

Sherlock glares, “John's in no condition to -”

“Just go Sherlock.”

The demand is sharp and cold and John can’t help but not care. He’s still mad. His heart still hurts. He slaps at Sherlock's hand and takes a step back, breaking away from his warmth to stare up with hard, condemning eyes. Sherlock, silently shocked, immediately drops his head and turns to leave. Mycroft waits until he hears the downstairs door shut then waves for John to sit. He again looks John over while he sinks into Sherlock’s leather chair. 

“If you could hurry up and satisfy yourself with my well being, which is disturbingly strange, I’d like to get this over with.”

“Yes, I’d hate to interrupt your domestic bliss,” Mycroft retorts, leaning forward to hand John an envelope. “I don’t make it a habit of doing favors,” a pause, then, “Actually, I simply don’t do them. For anyone. Ever.”

John holds up the envelope, “So, this _isn’t_ a favor?”

Mycroft frowns, “It is. I figured I owed you after our unfortunate time together.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” he deadpans. He rips open the thick expensive paper and pulls out a letter, blinks a couple of times, flips it over, then reads it again, confused. “It says, ‘I owe you.’”

“Indeed.”

John puts the letter back in its carrier and taps it against his knee. “So, does this mean that Mycroft Holmes _the man_ owes me a favor or that the British Government is willing to assist in my recovery after my unfortunate accident?

“The former with the backing of the latter, if need be.”

“I take it this is as close as I’m going to get to an apology for the worst seven months of my entire life.”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“Why?”

It’s a simple question and, of course, John expects the ginger man to answer just as simply because God forbid the very secret and very powerful government official actually explain anything. “Because of Sherlock.”

“I thought you didn’t do favors. For anyone.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand. Sherlock didn’t ask me to do this. I’m doing it _for_ him.”

John tilts his head, “And how does helping me help Sherlock Holmes?”

“Because he needs you,” Mycroft says, but not happily. “I’m afraid, Doctor Watson, that you must be in my brother’s life both healthy and relatively happy. So if something were to happen and Sherlock was unable to keep you, then I believe it only prudent to have a back-up plan or an incentive, if you will, for you to not abandon post.”

John laughs lightly under his breath twisting his lips. With venom, he flicks the envelope at the elder Holmes watching it hit the man on his neck making him flinch. “Keep your favor. I don’t want anything from you,” he snaps and rises to leave the room.

Mycroft retrieves the paper and smirks, sitting back, “Why so angry all the time, Doctor Watson? And not just to me. I see you also treat Sherlock rather coldly as well.”

John stops at the door and turns, “Our relationship is none of your business.”

“It’s funny how often we tend to disagree.”

John glares, “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I’ve given you your best friend back, alive and unharmed. It would behoove you not to take out all your ridiculous aggression on him.”

“Now you’re threatening me?”

“If I must,” Mycroft concedes. “You see, it’s imperative that my brother be happy. Being happy keeps him out of trouble and keeps him safe. And for some reason, beyond the occasional murder, _you_ are what makes him happy,” Mycroft’s lips turn down in disgust and he grips his umbrella to stand, “You, John Watson, are the making of my brother, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you do your best to remain friendly toward him going forward.”

“And if I don’t?”

Mycroft tilts his head, “Do you really want to test me, Doctor Watson?”

That's really the wrong thing to say. Especially to a soldier, because John's ready, his body tight in anticipation and poised to spring, to take down his enemy and do what he must to survive. He'll face Sherlock's wrath if need be, but he'll not be bullied or manipulated into false actions nor will he be emotionally blackmailed by a dandy in a suit. So John pulls himself up, walks the short distance, and stands face to face with the most powerful man in England, staring right into his eyes. “I’m not your bitch and I’m not your little brother’s toy. So you do what you need to, and so will I.”

But it doesn’t come to that because the elder Holmes takes a step back, holding his composure as best he can while he fiddles with his umbrella, “If you won’t accept my gift and you refuse to at least be civil, then I believe it best that you leave.”

The complete one-eighty gives John pause. "Leave?"

"I didn't stutter, doctor. Yes, leave Baker Street and my brother. You're being here, unhealthy and mentally unstable, doesn't appear to be helping either of you. So leave." 

It’s a blunt option that makes total sense, especially given current circumstances. The logical and rational thing would be for John to take some time where he can get his bearings and heal, both emotionally and mentally. And he can, easily, now that he has a ‘favor’ from Mycroft Holmes. It all seems so simple all of the sudden, but something about the thought leaves a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. And then he knows.

“You’re putting me on,” John accuses.

“Am I?” Mycroft looks surprised. “What exactly is it that you question?” he asks, watching John’s face, “My offer? My intentions? The truth of what really happened that day at Barts?” he hesitates, “Yes, I’m afraid the latter is not something I’m allowed to share.”

“Allowed to or willing?” 

“Either.” Mycroft shrugs. “But it's all just details. Easily acquired and explained to your satisfaction at a later time. I agree I am a hard person to trust, but we're both aware that what I want is for my brother to be safe and happily out of my hair and, over time, in the back of your simple little mind, you've come to the realization that because of him no harm will come to you. So no, you don't fear me. But what you won't admit doctor . . . what’s really eating at you is Sherlock’s reliance on you. That’s what you can’t believe. That’s what bothers you.

And Christ, as much as he hates to admit it, Mycroft is right. The peculiar way Sherlock has been acting these past days is killing him. Never in his wildest dreams would John believe that Sherlock Holmes, famous Consulting Detective and scientific mastermind, would spend an ounce of his time and energy on something as silly as sentiment. But he has. And it’s weird. And the only confirmation that John isn’t dead or dreaming is Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade who both agree ‘Sherlock is acting a bit odd, but it’s certainly not the strangest thing he’s done.’ 

Admittedly, John has been treating Sherlock cold; responding with short curt words and often outright ignoring the man just to get him to leave the room. But he’s mad. And he still hurts and even though it doesn’t make John feel any better -- he doesn’t know how to feel. He doesn’t know how to act. So if his words and actions hurt Sherlock and if being near him is damaging them both, maybe Mycroft’s right. Maybe he should leave.

“Fine,” John says, “I’ll leave.”

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably, looking for all the world how John feels. “You do realize that this isn’t my end game, doctor.”

“No. You figured you’d come here and everything would be fine. You’d offer me your 'gift' and return to your life. But instead, you find the people here shattered, broken without the knowledge or means to put themselves back together again. And it's all your fault.” Mycroft's eyes flash up in surprise and annoyance and John can't help rub salt in the wound. "Stings a bit, when your plans backfire like that, doesn't it?" 

Mycroft doesn't reply but his eyes do narrow in the way very intelligent men's do when they contemplate the effects of the combined efforts of inescapable manipulation and all-encompassing control over someone. Sadly, that someone just happens to be John. And so, John sighs the sigh of a man who's lived a million lifetimes, running a hand pale over his face and through his hair. 

“Did you know that he brings me all my meals? Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Everyday. All my favorite snacks are in a drawer next to my bed. Tea is brought in every two hours on the hour. And at night, without a word, he comes in and picks up the novel from the side table and reads until I fall asleep. But to top it off, every morning when I wake up he’s there, passed out in the chair where he’d watched over me while I slept. Every single day, Mycroft.” 

John can't do it anymore. He can't live this way; his best friend dead as he sleeps and alive when he wakes -- and all the while, falling hopelessly in love with him. With watery eyes, he reaches out and takes the envelope from Mycroft, running his thumb over the frayed edges where he’d ripped it. This is his lifeline. This is his out. And, Christ, he hates to take something from the pompous sod, but he needs it. He thinks Sherlock might need it too.

“And yet you don’t believe me when I say he needs you.”

“No, this isn’t need or 'reliance' as you put it,” John says, “this is guilt, Mycroft. He’s trying to make up for the pain he caused. And because he’s Sherlock, he’ll do this until he feels he’s given the sufficient amount of sentiment required to both make me whole again and to absolve him of his misdeeds, then he’ll go back to doing his own thing.”

Mycroft lifts his head in acknowledgement, “That does sound like something he would do. But what if you’re wrong?”

John closes his eyes and rubs hard between them, “I'm not wrong. He's Sherlock Holmes."

"And you?"

The question is loaded and John wonders if Mycroft already knows the depth of John's profound feelings for his self-dubbed sociopathic brother. He dismisses his fear quickly in the hopes the elder Holmes can't see his struggle, "Healing doesn’t happen overnight. Trust me, I know. I wake up every morning thinking he’s dead, and honestly, I don’t know how long that will last.” 

“But isn’t that all the more reason to stay? Exposure therapy,” Mycroft suggests.

"What I need is time,” John says, “As you said, I’m smart enough to know your threats are empty and you do owe me a favor. So give me this. Give me time, away from here, somewhere Sherlock can’t find me.”

“Are you sure this is what you want, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asks, his hard eyes staring him down, probably trying to figure out a way to use this moment for his advantage. 

“Yes.”

John doesn’t elaborate and, after what seems far too long, Mycroft finally concedes, almost as if he doesn’t really want to even though he’s the one who offered. And yet, John thinks he sees a hint of success in those hazel eyes, which worries him more than ever. 

“I will agree to your request, but on my terms.”

“Which are?”

“You stay at a place of my choosing and you will not have access to any form of drugs or alcohol," a pause, "or weapons.”

“I can handle that.”

“Also . . .” John glares but the man continues with his demands, “I will only accommodate you for two months. After that, you must either come back to Baker Street and make amends with Sherlock or find a place of your own.”

“Two months -”

“Should be sufficient enough time for you to get your shit together,” Mycroft smiles all teeth, “for Sherlock’s sake, of course.”

“I also asked for space, Mycroft.”

“Although I cannot guarantee one hundred percent that my brother won’t find you eventually, have no fear that I will sufficiently waylay him, if necessary. This is what I have to offer. Take it or leave it, Doctor Watson.”

John takes a minute to contemplate the facts and Mycroft’s offer. Sherlock’s alive. He’s safe and well and here at Baker Street. And, not to downplay his friend’s recent unknown activities, but John’s been through a lot. He’s still going through a lot and . . . he just needs space. The death and the loss and the revival. He can’t right now. He just can’t. Again, he fingers the edge of the paper as if it will tell him what to do. And in a way, it does. This will help. It has to. John nods and passes the envelope back to the ginger man.

“How soon can I leave?”


	10. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiments with feelings. Molly tries to help. There's an echo in the morgue.

Baker Street is cold and nearly empty when he steps outside. The sun's setting through the trees, lighting up the reds and yellows like an exotic impressionist painting. Sherlock checks his watch. Just gone six in the evening in the middle of December. He’s cold and bored and he’s been kicked out of his flat by his brother and his best mate. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the two were teaming up against him. But that’s ridiculous. 

So, first things first. He needs answers.

Barts is a thirty-minute walk from the loft and Sherlock is absolutely frozen when he finally finds Molly Hooper in the basement, standing over a rather large cadaver and taking notes, likely for Scotland Yard. Sherlock watches her through the door for a moment; _Hair hastily pulled back, nail polish chipped, shirt wrinkled -- hasn’t been on a date in quite some time. Coffee stains on the lab coat, ink dots on her fingers, deep frown wrinkles between her eyes -- had a long shift and now struggling to stay focused._

He pushes through the door and flashes a half-smile, “Hello Molly. Hard day?”

Her returning smile isn’t as bright as normal, hopefully meaning she’s less likely to attempt to flirt. “You said it. What about you? Here for a case?” she asks, then looks behind him at the door, “No John?”

“No. I’m not here for a case, and no, no John,” his keen eyes do a once-over of the body before returning back to Molly, “I’m actually here to see you.”

The small woman’s face lights up and Sherlock curses his phrasing. “Really? That’s sweet, I mean I didn’t think -”

“We’re friends, right?” he pauses awkwardly, then, “What I mean to say is, I consider you my friend Molly. And I wondered - hoped you returned the,” he hesitates, trying not to grimace, “sentiment.”

The tiny brunette blinks, momentarily stunned by the bluntness of the conversation but she thankfully rebounds without much fuss. “I, yes, of course, we’re friends Sherlock,” there’s a bit of uncomfortable staring where Molly waits for him to continue and Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to say, then, “So . . . is everything okay? Did you need something?”

Sherlock nods, “Yes. Right. Ummm . . .” Gods, this is so strange. “I was wondering if we could - talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yes, talk. Because that’s what friends do. They talk to one another about things and somehow they,” he shakes his head in the negative, “feel better or, I don’t know, suddenly understand something they didn’t before.”

Molly nods slowly, a small smile stuck to her face, “Yeah, that happens. Quite a bit.” 

Both professionals stand in the morgue, each flanking one side of a dead man’s bloated stomach. Sherlock blinks. Molly keeps smiling. 

“He died of asphyxiation,” Sherlock's non sequitur forms out of habit and extreme discomfort. “The rawness around his nose and blood under his nails indicates consistent nosebleeds. Probably has a chronic illness, like asthma. The bloodshot eyes and dilation of the blood vessels are easy signs, but the stab wound isn’t what killed him. It’s in the wrong spot and he wouldn’t have had time to bleed out from there,” Sherlock raises his brows and his eyes light up, “No. He panicked after the fact, probably couldn’t find his inhaler which is a placebo at best, then instead of calling an ambulance he fell to the floor bruising both knees - and his neck as he gripped it, struggling desperately for air. These injuries and,” Sherlock waves at the protruding stomach, “obvious lack of physical endurance hindered him, but they didn’t kill him. He just couldn’t breathe.” 

“He died of asphyxiation,” Molly repeats. Sherlock goes quiet and Molly stares at him in awe, laying the clipboard on the man’s stomach. “Thanks. I’ll put that in my report.” 

There’s another odd pause where she flashes her ‘I’m going to ask him out again’ smile and then peeks her brown eyes out from under long lashes. Sherlock winces but manages to smile back wondering if he made a mistake coming here. 

“So, what do you really want to talk about?”

“John Watson.”

Molly tilts her head and her soft eyes turn confused, “Oh, okay, what about him?”

“He - I -” Sherlock stands flustered, absolutely hating the fact that this is so hard, “It’s difficult to put what I’m thinking into words, especially when I need someone to tell me how my words translate into feelings.”

“Feelings . . . for John?” Molly asks, clearly astonished.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s eyes narrow in warning, “for John.”

Molly nods so quickly her ponytail bounces onto her shoulder, “Yeah, sure. So, what specifically is it that’s bothering you?”

“Well, you and I were co-conspirators once upon a time.” Molly stares back at him still looking confused, “You know, when we used Barts as the stage where we faked my death so I could disappear to take down Moriarty's network of spies and murderers, subsequently saving John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson’s lives and somewhat indirectly, all of England.”

“Oh, yeah. How could I forget?” 

Sherlock nods, “And now I’m back from the dead.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m attempting to gradually bring John out of his depression and alcoholic tendencies with acts of never-before-seen kindness and care . . . which is what a person does when they care about someone. And I know you’re going to say, ‘Since when do you care about anyone but yourself, Sherlock?’” he mimics Molly’s soft voice, “And you’re right. I was heartless. I lied to him. I betrayed him. But I’m trying. I’m doing all these nice things but he keeps pushing me away. I just - I don’t know what to do to win him back.”

“To win him back,” Molly repeats.

Sherlock’s lips thin, “Is there an echo in here? Yes, to win him back.”

“Right, so what do you want from me?”

“Well, I need to know how to go about explaining this to John.” 

Molly still looks confused and it’s starting to grate on Sherlock’s last nerve, “But you did. Just now. To me.”

Sherlock blinks, then, “Yes, but I need you to tell me how to say it in a way that doesn’t make him mad at me anymore.”

“Oh. So, you want forgiveness.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Her lips pout down but she quickly twists her entire face into a gentle smile and just watching the wheel of emotions circling Molly’s face is enough to make Sherlock feel bad. A little. He didn’t think he’d been giving her mixed signals, but at this point, he honestly can’t tell what he’s giving or receiving these days or even what it all means. It’s no wonder John is so mad at him.

“Well,” Molly says, “you explain things, just like you did to me, but maybe slower and less like you’re boasting.” 

Sherlock wrinkles his brows as he digests this bit of advice and goes to ask how he could possibly be boasting but Molly has moved on, her eyes now glazed over and her voice a suggestive octave lower. 

“And then, as you’re sitting side by side in your dusty loft on Baker Street, you take his hand in yours and look deep in his kind blue eyes and tell him . . . you tell him that you didn’t have a choice. You had to die to save his life. That you never, _never_ meant to hurt him but you just couldn’t stand a life without him in it and . . . and that you’d rather lose yourself, in both death and misery, than to lose him. Tell him you’re sorry, but, if you had to do it all over again you would. For him.”

There’s another ridiculously awkward silence where Sherlock stands petrified and Molly blinks herself out of her fantasy. He stares at his embarrassed friend with her bright red cheeks and suddenly shy countenance and opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “Thank you,” he says, and then to break the tension, “You, um, wouldn’t happen to be available to drop by and repeat all that?”

Molly laughs and Sherlock smiles in relief, “Yeah, I don’t think it would work as well coming from me,” she looks at the body on the slab for a moment and her face falls, “But even after all that, you still have to give him time. A heart can’t mend from just a kind word.”

Sherlock nods, again not sure what to say. “No, but, I really do appreciate this.”

His thanks is quiet and completely unusual and Molly struggles to calm the butterflies in her stomach as she watches Sherlock’s tall frame glide through the morgue's double doors where he’s off to find John Watson. The man he has feelings for. She reaches up and quickly swipes a lone tear from her cheek and sniffs. 

“You’re welcome.” 


	11. No Rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft checks his watch. John does as he's told. Mrs. Hudson is upset.

It only takes ten minutes. Ten sixty-second moments for Mycroft Holmes to change John Watson’s life forever. Little did the grumpy blogger know that this singular and expeditious decision would forever change his life. And because he's all-knowing, within seconds of the blonde's agreement, Mycroft has four of his people with boxes marching up the stairs. Always prepared for any situation. Two of them go up to John’s room, the other two spread out on the first-floor sifting odds and ends that the doctor uses on a daily basis into the boxes.

“Wait - Hey! What are you . . ." he spins and flashes Mycroft a bewildered look, "How do they know which books on that shelf are mine?”

Mycroft ignores him and resettles himself in John’s chair, casually checking his watch as John rushes across the room to snatch up his laptop before a tall muscular blond does. He smirks, “You should sit down Doctor Watson. Not that I don’t enjoy watching you run about all flustered while my people rush to do your bidding.”

John’s eyes snap to him, “My bidding?”

“This is your plan. Your favor in action my dear doctor, so I’ll insist again. Please, sit down and have a cup of tea as we don’t have a lot of time,” he checks his watch again, “eight minutes to be exact.”

Mycroft's brows raise in approval as a full tea tray is placed between them. His lips twitch in mirth as John sets his computer aside and sits in Sherlock’s chair watching as one of his female employees makes him a cup of tea - cream and no sugar - then turns and resumes packing her box in the restroom, being so thorough as to include John’s dirty pants from the hamper. 

“Eight minutes until what?” 

Mycroft smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “You see, I’m trying to beat my personal best time. Normally, I will have a task that needs to be done and I always set myself a particular amount of time to get that task accomplished. Right now, you are my task, Doctor Watson, and I’ve given myself what I believe to be a generous ten minutes to finish. That’s five minutes less than my last task where you and my brother were concerned, and I intend to beat my old record.”

“Wait, you’ve handled me and Sherlock before?” a beat, "Of course, you have. How stupid of me."

He hums in agreement, “Sometimes it feels that’s all I do. And now I have eight minutes left, well . . . seven and a quarter actually, to collect your things, bundle you into a car, leave my poor little brother a note, and evacuate the loft before he gets back."

John huffs like a raspy dog, "Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty of time. I really don't see the need for all of . . . this," he waves his arm at the multiple people in black rummaging through his and Sherlock's personal belongings. 

"On the contrary, he'll be along much sooner than you think because knows he’s being played.”

“What -” John shakes his head, “How do you know he knows about this?”

Again Mycroft smiles at the silly little man's ignorance, “Because he’s Sherlock . . . and as soon as you said yes I sent him a text from your phone saying you were leaving.”

He passes the doctor’s mobile over but John ignores him and instead decides to jump to his feet and fall into another long-winded and completely purposeless rant, all red-faced rage and overreaction. Mycroft calmly places it on the tray and pours himself a cup of tea. So far so good. Nothing he can't handle. Then Mrs. Hudson peeks around the corner. 

“Oh, John what’s going on? Who’re all these people?”

This already-planned-for interruption thankfully calms the doctor down enough that he goes to the old woman and, ironically, attempts to placate her, without success mind you, because as soon as he informs her of his rather unfortunately hasty decision to leave, she begins her own ridiculous overreaction gripping at his shirt and begging him to reconsider. Mycroft takes a sip of his tea and checks his watch again.

“Five minutes, Doctor Watson.”

Mycroft actually begins to think he’ll beat his old time, but any personal elation is stalled when one of his people, the blonde who eventually collected John's computer, comes from Sherlock’s room carrying a small pouch. “We found this under one of the floorboards Sir.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Hudson cries.

John shakes his head, “No. He couldn’t have. I would’ve seen him. We’ve been together almost constantly since he’s been back.”

Mycroft nods at the man, “Thank you, Lucas. Please finish loading Doctor Watson’s belongings into the car.”

“Mycroft that has to be old, something he had before and forgot about," John says defiantly, moving to stand over him in what Mycroft considers 'the short man's loom.'

“I’m afraid it’s not,” he hesitates, “because I have this loft checked on a regular basis.”

This, of course, doesn’t get a favorable reaction from either John or Mrs. Hudson, the latter ranting under her breath about trespassing and defending her home. Mycroft sighs, knowing that John will delay him if he doesn’t explain, so he attempts to be as plain as possible without really saying much. “There were times when you were out, before and after his ‘death’, where my people searched for holes in the walls, secret compartments, sifted through piles of trash, and even felt for loose floorboards,” he unzips the bag and holds up a needle, a lurid yellow liquid gleams in the light, “and I’m sorry to say that this is new. A recently acquired drug for an overly distraught man.”

John shakes his head again as if involuntary body movements will change anything. “You’re lying. Your man planted that there to make me want to stay.”

“And do you? Want to stay, that is? Has this sudden revelation changed your mind? Are you concerned enough to remain here and make sure your friend is safe or are you too determined to get your own life back, Doctor?” Mycroft snaps his words like a whip but doesn't bother to see if they sting and instead settles his eyes down to check his watch again, “Because you now have three minutes to decide not only your fate but possibly the fate of the person you claim to care about most in this world.”

“You’re a bastard,” John says, and to Mycroft, he sounds broken.

“I may be. But I am a great, high-handed, rational-minded bastard that is going to sit here after you’ve gone and face my brother about his drug habit. I will also bear his considerable wrath for _taking you_ from him and I will do so because it is what must be done. For both your sakes.” 

John is silent for once, probably humbled by the ridiculous sacrifice at his expense, silly little man, and although this is so incredibly far from what his original plan was, Mycroft can’t help but improvise as he goes. He’s rather good at last-minute fixes. But even as he excels at the impossible, he’s still rather pressed for time and raises a brow in boredom, completely oblivious to the existential crisis the doctor's currently having. “There are very few things I care about in this world and keeping a schedule is one of them. One minute, thirty seconds.” 

Mrs. Hudson sputters stupidly while John grinds his teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching. It’s coming. Mycroft knows it’s coming. The good doctor is so obviously prone to fits of two very predictable emotional habits: anger and acceptance and, not one to disappoint, the small man finally gives in, his body almost deflating as he turns to Mycroft with tired eyes.

“You’ll look after him. Keep him from using and,” he turns to Mrs. Hudson, “make sure he eats and gets some sleep?”

“Oh, John. Of course, I will. But must you really go with this one?” she glares at Mycroft who takes a last sip of his tea and stands.

John eyes the elder Holmes as well but nods, “Yeah, he’s actually helping me out for a time. But it’ll be all right, yeah?”

With a nod to one of his people, Mycroft has Mrs. Hudson led down to her apartment and moves to stand next to John, “I’m afraid it’s time to go, Doctor Watson.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft hands the doctor’s mobile over and the man quietly pockets it. They move to the door of the landing and John turns back, probably to take one final grossly sentimental look at the loft, then follows Mycroft downstairs and into the cold night air.

“I’ll be in touch."

“You will?” John asks, now surprised.

“Unfortunately, yes. But right now, you need to leave unless you want this whole thing ruined by the premature arrival of my little brother," he flicks his wrist up, "which I’m anticipating in just under a minute.”

“I . . ." John starts then grunts rather ugly and rubs between his eyes, "you know, nevermind. I’ll see you later.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply but stands patiently at the curb until the car bearing his recent burden turns the corner. He waits another twenty seconds then turns on his heel and climbs back up the stairs, reclines in John’s chair, and makes himself a fresh cup of tea. Just as he raises the porcelain to his mouth, the sound of a door slamming and feet pounding on the stairs alerts him to Sherlock’s arrival. 


	12. A Kept Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces. Mycroft's guilty. John's MIA.

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, half hopeful he’s not too late and half afraid events are already well beyond his reach. His hands shake as he attempts to catch his breath. Desperate eyes scan the flat. He immediately notices three things. First, a good majority, if not all of John’s possessions are missing from their normal places. Second, the man himself is also absent. And third, and most ominous, is that Mycroft occupies his chair. 

“What have you done with him, Mycroft?”

“I’ll have you know I resent that accusation.”

“Don’t be smart. You were the last person to see him, which means whatever he did, he did _with you_. Further logic directly correlates to the fact that whatever coerced him to leave and take all his worldly possessions _also_ had something to do _with you_. So I’m completely certain that offence cannot be taken if you’re guilty of the crime.” Sherlock places a hand on each side of the chair and leans over his brother, silver eyes sharp as razors, “So I will ask again. What have you done with John Watson?”

Mycroft remains placid and blinks innocently up at him, “I think you should relax, Sherlock. There’s no need for hysterics . . . here, I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”

Sherlock steps back and takes a deep breath, doing his best not to strangle the infuriating man he has the misfortune to be related to, but he does need to take a second. Normally, John’s absence and Mycroft’s appearance wouldn’t affect him so much, both being constants in his life, since John always comes home and Mycroft always eventually pisses off. But this time is different. Sherlock failed to complete a job that can endanger John. Again. And his whole reason for coming home is to keep John safe. His eyes scan the room again and a cold tingling steals over him. It’s the missing items. John’s laptop isn’t leaning against his chair, his favorite coffee mug not next to the sink, his cardigan and jacket not hanging from the coat rack. They’re all gone and it’s so -- final. 

A gentle grip manoeuvres his rigid form into his chair and presses a cup of tea into his hands. He takes a drink, working to settle his mind knowing his transport will follow. “I hate you.”

“What tipped you off then?”

“The text, obviously,” Sherlock says, “John is direct and gets to the point, especially when he’s mad. He also uses contractions.”

Mycroft hums in acknowledgement, “I figured as much.”

“How long did it take you?”

Mycroft smiles radiantly, “Nine minutes and forty-three seconds. A new personal best.”

Sherlock nods, his mind already reeling, working to find a way to manipulate his brother into disclosing John’s location. Because John must return home. He can use John’s health as an argument, but that’s easily shot down as John can, admittedly, take care of himself. There’s the threat of impending danger but Mycroft has likely already taken it into account and taken appropriate measures. But if Sherlock can set something up . . . 

“It’s unfortunate, this situation. But your doctor never struck me as a kept man,” Mycroft interrupts his musings.

“Very funny, considering it is you who is keeping him from me.”

“And what makes you think I have anything to do with his decision?”

“Don’t you? We were fine and you show up for one evening and . . .” Sherlock flings his arms into the air dramatically.

Mycroft frowns, “It’s very rare that you’re this high-strung or emotional about anything, but I suppose the good doctor has managed to worm himself into your rusty little heart, whether you admit it or not.” 

“I’ve always been this way. You simply can’t see as well as you’d like.” 

The dig doesn’t go unnoticed but Mycroft ignores it. And then Sherlock sees him hesitating, the bastard, preparing to explain exactly what he’s done while continuing to deny any and all fault in the matter. It’s typical and pathetic and so Mycroft Holmes. The git. So Sherlock can’t resist letting him know, “This is all your fault.”

“All I’ve done is offer him a favor -”

“You don’t do favors.”

“- which he accepted.”

“And what did you give him, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, brain forging through his brother's own logical mental breakdown of the situation before he put it into action, “Did you offer him money? No, John’s too loyal for a bribe. You must've threatened him. Used something from his past against him to get him to leave.” Sherlock pauses, his eyes flicking in deep thought, “No, John’s too good to have a torrid past. So that means . . . “ he looks up at his brother, eyes sharp and dangerous, “You used me. You used me to get to him and -”

“It worked.”

Sherlock shakes his head in the negative. "Surely not. John's a creature of habit. He enjoys mundane things like organization, a schedule, polite social cues, and other depressingly dull things. So to willingly uproot himself from everything he knows . . . I didn't think he cared anymore. I figured he'd have moved on."

"Then you truly are the ignorant one." Mycroft stares in disbelief then chuckles, "Don't tell me you were only trying to make amends, to _fix_ your doctor and what -- release him into the wild?"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"That does sound like the sort of ridiculous thing you would do. Never really had the heart to actually commit. To give a part of yourself away properly . . ."

"Shut. up. Mycroft."

"Not without consequence anyway, as recent events seem to prove." 

The clink of bone china clicks something raw and dangerous inside of Sherlock making him glance up with intent. It wouldn’t be the first time he and his brother have fallen to fisticuffs, not for some time mind you but Sherlock isn’t disinclined to do so again if it helps him in his cause. His long fingers curl, digging into his palms and he forces himself to take a deep breath lest he does something he'll regret later. He's angry. He's angry at Mycroft, the situation, and apparently (if Molly's bizarre emotional soap opera has any validity) himself. And of course, Mycroft only makes things better with his stupid voice.

“It will make you happy to know that he’s safe. We came to a mutual agreement of sorts where his needs can be met and I can still keep a weather eye on him,” Mycroft says, 

“What did he want?” Sherlock's voice is deep and dangerous but Mycroft sits unbothered staring at his twiddling fingers unwilling to give too much away. Sherlock swallows thickly. “WHAT DID HE WANT?!”

The yell makes his brother look up in alarm. “Time. And space.”

_But even after all that, you still have to give him time._

Molly’s words echo in his head and he winces, “You have to bring him back.”

“Sadly, I’m unable to do that.”

“Fine. I’ll do it myself. Where is he?”

“Ah, well you see, that was one of his stipulations, that I put him somewhere you can’t find him.”

Sherlock startles, completely blown back by this information. “What? You're hiding him!? Why?”

“Possibly, because of this.”

Mycroft sets a familiar black drug pouch on the tea tray and all Sherlock’s anger suddenly drains. Oh Christ, no. John thinks he’s using again. This can't be happening. The leather pouch takes Sherlock back to a wet, three days ago when Wiggins stumbled into Baker Street, strung out and shaking. He allowed the man in and settled him on the couch to kip while he hid the drugs away until he could deal with them later. Sherlock fed him up and, after a few harsh words from Mrs. Hudson, sent the rambler was on his way the next morning. The drugs were forgotten.

Sherlock shakes his head, “It’s not mine.”

“Oh Sherlock, you’re not even trying.”

“It’s. not. mine.” he repeats, his eyes hard.

Mycroft studies him carefully, like a butterfly pinned to a board, then, “Fine. But I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.”

Sherlock swallows and feels slightly faint but reigns in his flailing composure. He needs to get back on track. “Good on you, brother dearest. Now, because of your constant disregard for any other person's thoughts, feelings, or overall life, I'm sure you won't mind renigging on your so-called 'contract' with John Watson and tell me where he is so I can go get him. He needs to come back to Baker Street. He needs -”

Sherlock stops short, not entirely certain how to finish his sentence. What does John need? He never really asked and realizes that's a bit not good. He blinks up at his brother and Mycroft frowns again, this time in pity, and Sherlock wants to punch him. 

“What? Oh, Sherlock, you think he needs _you_? You really don’t understand, do you?”

"He's in danger," Sherlock says.

"From what? He's in my care."

"But I didn't finish the job."

Mycroft tilts his head condescendingly, "Again, he's in my care."

“He’s fragile,” Sherlock tries again although he doesn't like the word, as much as it's true. 

“Perhaps, but not in the way you think.”

“What is this, one of your games?” Sherlock snaps, fed up with the vague vagaries.

“No, little brother, this is a man who’s trying to run from his demons.” 

“Which I am helping him with!”

“But right now you _are_ his demon, Sherlock.”

Mycroft pauses, letting his hateful words sink in until they feel tight and wriggly under Sherlock's skin. No. _No_. He can't be. He opens his mouth to speak then closes it with a snap. Is he John's demon? Is this the reason John's pushing him away, uncomfortable when he's around and taking favors from Mycroft? Because of him? And although he doesn't want to believe it, it's the only logical answer. Sherlock leans forward and rests his head in his hands, his stomach roiling violently. He hears a deep sigh from his brother and the rustle of fabric.

“Sherlock, you were dead for nearly a year and the doctor blamed himself for that. He couldn’t save you. And since then, his every waking moment has been spent in this tomb of a flat surrounded by memories of you.”

“And when he sleeps, I am his nightmare,” Sherlock closes his eyes, guilt consuming his mind and transport completely.

“John Watson had no escape,” Mycroft chastises, “and then you turn back up like a bad penny, a grossly arrogant and thick-headed penny, and expect him to be just fine about the hell you put him through.” 

_A heart can’t mend from just a kind word._

“Shut up,” Sherlock pleads at Molly's echo.

Mycroft hesitates, his lips turning down in distaste, “I don’t pretend to understand the delicate ins and outs of love and heartbreak, but I can tell you that your friend is damaged and, like that ugly vase we shattered at old Aunt Millicent’s when we were little . . . putting him back together will take time and care.”

“I will put him back together.”

Mycroft sits his teacup down and scoffs, “Sherlock, you are not John Watson's savior.” 

Sherlock stares back, eyes heavy with remorse, “But . . . I have to be.”

There’s a pause where Mycroft Holmes, alleged Gamemaker and deluded aspiring Hand of God, fails at being a competent spy for the British Government and instead surprisingly excels at being an unusually kind and, if reluctantly, caring big brother. “I wouldn’t worry too much on the matter as I have a feeling that within no time at all your _friend_ will gain some perspective on his situation and, if I should be so bold, on his relationship with you.”

Sherlock nods, relieved at the crumb. For the most part, he does feel guilty as hell for being the reason John hurts, but in order to beat his brother, Sherlock has to use those feelings to his advantage. Needs must and all that. So he allows the emotion in, automatically the rise in cortisol increases stimulating his brain and allowing his body to mimic the appropriate distressing functions. Mycroft rolls his eyes. They both know how this goes. It’s part of the game. Mycroft feeds him and Sherlock eats it up, getting his high from using the pittance-like clues to solve his brother's riddles until he obtains victory. Except this time the stakes are much higher than Sherlock is comfortable with. 

“John’s life is not a game.”

“And yet you continue to play.”

“Apparently I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Sherlock, you just have no sense of right and wrong.”

As they are wont to do during a standstill, both men sit in silence; Mycroft all smug and seeming like he’s in control and Sherlock hating his guts for everything, including being born. Mrs. Hudson pushes the door open with her foot and silently walks into the room, switches out the tea with some fresh, and then leaves in much the same way she entered. Sherlock watches his brother make them both a cuppa but refuses to drink his out of spite and the fact that his mind is already racing, planning his next move considering the clue he’s been given. But first, he has to readjust. Something about Sherlock scares John, made him want to leave, and Sherlock intends to find out what that is and fix it. Then he will fix John and everything will be OK. 

“Stop plotting your own ignorant demise and give the doctor what he asked for. Time and space,” Mycroft sips his tea, “and in the meantime, we’ll see about bringing you back to life.” 

But Sherlock can’t stop. He needs his blogger, his doctor, his friend. And yes, he'll admit he's been a complete twat - lying and conniving and dying then coming back to life - but regardless, he simply can’t function without John. That gives him pause. _How long has that been a thing???_ The thought makes his skin tingle and his fingers twitch. It feels . . . good. Exciting. Sherlock sucks in a breath at the strangeness and rubs his face, staring at his brother with an honestly he’s not shone since they were children.

“I get it. I do. He's hurting and I've been a bit not good. But I need him, Mycroft. I need him to get better and to come home and solve cases with me and yell at me for stupid things like not getting the milk or for storing body parts in the oven. And if he won't stay, well, I still need him to be OK.” 

Mycroft sighs heavily but his eyes are soft as he stares back. “He waited for you for one hundred ninety-two days, Sherlock. The least you can do is give him a few weeks. You owe him that much.”


	13. Meet the Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a shock. Or two. Or three. Would you like some toffee?

“Ya might wanna settle in, sir. It’ll be a bit afore we get ta yer destination.”

John thanks the driver and watches through the window as the familiar streets of London pass him by. Automatically, the seat warmers come on and a privacy screen goes up and he thinks he should maybe be a bit friendlier to Mycroft in the future. That would really mess with the man. The thought makes John smile, briefly. But the whole point of being in this car, taking this trip, is to not think about the Holmes brothers with their pompous attitudes, disturbing moods, or hare-brained and often dangerous schemes. No, John Watson is going to relax and not think of any Holmes for any reason.

-

-

The car jolts harshly, knocking a sleeping John painfully against the door. He rubs his eyes and glances out the window but all he can see are trees. The road gets worse and he reaches up to knock on the privacy screen. 

“Didya need somethin’, sir?” 

“Yes, I notice we’re no longer on the main road. Are we nearly there?”

“Yessir. The house is just a wee bit up this here road.”

John again thanks the driver and stares out the window for what seems like forever. He begins to worry, but the road finally evens out and the trees disappear to reveal a large estate house and surrounding garden. The two-story home is lit up with accent lights and jar lights, the latter strung along the walkways out to what looks like a barn and a wooded path highlighting the already rustic charm. Because it’s dark, he can’t see much else but he’s sure it’s just as impressive. The car pulls up to a white picket fence and John stares a moment before getting out. Mycroft sent him somewhere really nice, so he’s immediately on his guard. 

“Welcome sir, to the Vale of Glamorgan. Would’ve been ‘ere sooner, but there was a bit o’construction on the M4.”

“Thank you.” John checks his watch. Quarter to midnight. The driver appears at his side with John’s overnight duffle and a suitcase, neither of which John packed. 

“Righto. This way, sir.”

Just as they reach the door it swings open and they’re greeted by an older couple, very kindly looking and apparently excited at his arrival. They’re ushered in and John’s immediately stripped of his jacket and being hugged.

“Oh! You must be John. It’s so good to finally meet you. Mycroft told us all about you. Come in, come in.” 

John frowns, confused, “He did?” 

“Why yes dear, you’re Sherlock’s friend who needs somewhere to stay until things settle down. I’m so sorry about that, by the way. Those boys have always had a flair for the dramatic. Not sure where they get it from, mind you, but I’m a firm believer that everything works out in the end. So believe me when I say, my dear boy, you’ll be well taken care of here. Just let us know if there’s anything you need.” 

The white-haired woman grabs his arm and ushers him through the house straight into the kitchen, pouring him a cup of tea and sitting him at the table. “Cream? Sugar?”

“I . . . cream, thank you, um . . .” 

“Oh, how rude of me, I’m Violet Holmes and this is my husband Siger.” 

The bushy-browed man in the Christmas jumper waves happily at him. John stares dumbfounded, “You’re - you’re Sherlock and Mycroft’s -” 

“Parents, yes dear. Why, didn’t Myc tell you?” 

“No. He didn’t.” 

“Well, I hope it’s a happy surprise at least. Now, all your things will be taken to your room first thing tomorrow. You’ll be staying on the west end of the house. The boy’s old rooms are that way, but, as they’re not here you’ll have it all to yourself. Would you like something to eat? I’ve some homemade toffee bars. They’re Mike’s favorite.”

John blinks, mouth open.

“Or I can show you to your room if you want to tuck in for the night.” 

“I -”

Mrs. Holmes stares at him with the same silver eyes as her younger son, but unlike Sherlock, she’s not averse to expressing herself. “Oh, you poor dear,” she gently pats his hands and pouts out her bottom lip, “I may not know how you feel right now, but I understand what you’re going through. Sherlock faking his death wasn’t easy on us either, but at least we knew. I could kill those boys for not telling you, and when I found out they hadn’t, well, I promise you I paid them a visit. Nearly went and fetched you myself but Mycroft assured me he would take care of things - and here you are!” she finishes happily, hands in the air.

John stares blankly, taking in this new information as calmly as he can. So far, he knows that Sherlock, Mycroft, and his parents were all in on the plan to take down Moriarty. And, if he understands correctly, somehow during that time, the parents Holmes finds out about John’s ignorance of said event, words are exchanged, and Mycroft liberates him from Baker Street via force. 

“Mrs. Holmes?”

“Oh, just Violet, please, dear boy.”

John smiles, “How exactly did you find out about me?”

“We always knew you existed. Sherlock told us all about you a few months after you moved in.”

“I think he means with the whole fake death, darling,” Mr. Holmes says, and John nods.

“Oh, right. Well, we were just coming back from our trip to America when that sweet girl called,” Mrs. Holmes wags a hand at her husband, “oh . . . the one who has a huge crush oh Sherlock,”

“Molly,” Mr. Holmes supplies.

“Yes, Molly. Anyway, she really is a sweet young thing. Worries so much about you and Sherlock . . . asked if I’d heard from Sherlock again . . . told her no. . . such a pity . . . reassured her . . . said you weren’t handling things so well -”

Everything is suddenly a blur. Molly knew. Molly Hooper, the woman Sherlock has ignored, insulted, and pushed away for years - is trusted over John. No. No! This can't be true. He can’t believe it. But then again, he is standing in Sherlock's parent's kitchen hearing the whole plan from top to bottom, which he wasn't a part of. John’s hands begin to shake as exhaustion, confusion, and an overwhelming need to escape floods him and, despite being rude, he ignores his tea and stands. 

“I’m very sorry for the intrusion Mrs. Holmes, but I feel I should probably leave.”

Both Violet and Siger frown, “Whyever would you want to do that, dear?”

John can’t answer. He can’t breathe. He can’t think anything except that this can’t be real. Does Sherlock not trust him at all? Is he really just a tag-along, a fool that dogs the great consulting detective’s heels? He shakes his head, chest aching and heart pounding. 

“You’ve upset him, Violet," Mr. Holmes says, not angrily, "You’ve said too much. I’ve always told you that you talk too much,” 

“But he needs to know, dear. We are a family that harbors far too many secrets and John should know the truth. All of it, not the bits and pieces our boys spare him.”

“I know, but it’s all too much too soon. Look at him, Vi.” Two white heads regard John sadly over the table. He stands frozen listening to them argue. “The boy just found out his best friend’s alive after a deep underground government-led plot to track down one of the most dangerous men in England and you decide to regale him with tales of how much he’s been lied to and by whom.”

“Oh dear. You're right, Siger. I’m sorry I’ve upset you, John.” Mrs. Holmes reaches over and pats gently on John’s arm. It makes him miss his mum. “We’ll not keep you here against your will, but I must insist you at least stay until morning and, if you don’t change your mind, well, we’ll send for a car.”

Swallowing thickly, John nods his head. He could use some sleep. “Thank you.”

“I’ll take him,” Mr. Holmes offers, and John is grateful he’ll be spared any more conversation with Sherlock’s mum for the night. 

The two men leave the kitchen and a mumbling Violet Holmes and head through the sitting room then up the stairs. John pauses on the landing to look at a family picture, giving him a rare look into the lives of a young Sherlock and Mycroft. 

“This was the summer of nineteen eighty-five. Sherlock was nine and Mycroft nearly sixteen. They were hellions, Mycroft excelling unnaturally in his studies and his little brother following right behind. But they still had fun canoeing and hiking through the everglades.”

John can’t help but smile at the four people hugging in the photo, especially Sherlock who stands in shorts and a t-shirt, his gangly limbs like pale match sticks and his thick hair mussed wildly. “What do you mean by unnaturally?”

Mr. Holmes turns and John nearly fears he’s insulted him. “My boys are special, Doctor Watson, as I’m sure you already know. Violet and I found out early on but didn’t know the extent of how different they really are. But it makes no difference. We’re just proud they’ve become good men. We love them. Would no matter what and we’re blessed to have them in our lives.” 

It’s the typical blanket statement all parents give regarding their children, but John fidgets, knowing it’s also directed at him letting him know that he too should be grateful for Sherlock. And he is, in his own way. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, John would still walk with a cane and live in a shit flat living a boring life and working at a boring job. Given, he would have less stress from worrying about his missing flatmate and constantly wondering what’s safe to drink in the fridge, but if it weren’t for Sherlock . . . if it weren’t for Sherlock, John wouldn’t be alive. 

Christ. 

"You're right," he says to Mr. Holmes, "we are blessed to have him."

John steps back and takes in all the photos on the wall. Sherlock in primary, one of his front teeth missing. Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes in the kitchen, both wearing aprons and covered in flour. Sherlock with Mycroft and Mr. Holmes next to a pond with fishing rods, Mycroft holding up a small fish while Sherlock pouts. Sherlock holding his brand new Stradivarius over torn Christmas paper, the unmistakable shine of shock and happiness brightening his eyes. And there’s more, so many more that John could stand here all day and never tire of looking at them.

A hand on his shoulder startles him. Mr. Holmes smiles a knowing smile and tilts his head to the side, “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

John follows him down the hall but stops short at one of the doors. He reaches up and trails his fingers over the wooden letters, multicolored and cracked with age. Mr. Holmes shakes his head but smiles fondly. “Violet won’t let me take them down. Says it’s her house and she wants it the way she wants it. The boys sometimes give us a hard time that we’re so old that we need to see their names or we'll get them mixed up.” 

John looks over and sees the same wooden letters on a door behind Mr. Holmes, this one spelling out Mycroft’s name. Mouth hanging open, he turns back to Sherlock’s door, “This is Sherlock’s childhood bedroom,” he says, all wonder.

“It is.” There’s a pause where John is stunned and Mr. Holmes gratefully allows him his moment, then, “I’m sure if you’re here long enough, Sherlock will show you some of his earlier experiments. Had every free space filled with something from the fields or a chemical I'd sneak back from town for him. He never had any downtime, not that I saw. Will probably take you into Mike’s room too, so you have ammunition against him if you need it,” the older man says with a conspiratorial wink. “And this,” he swings open the door and flips on the light, “is your room.”

The words are said as if John were his new adopted son and the thought makes him ache; not exactly being close with his own family. But John steps in and takes in the quaint bedroom with matching furniture and large double-paned windows. It's nothing special visually, but in his mind, and his heart, it's where he wishes he had grown up, away from the drinking and the fighting. He would've been happy. The clearing of a throat snaps him out of his thoughts and he moves over to the bed, hopping up to sit on it. His feet dangle above the dust ruffle. 

“It’s nice. Thank you.”

“Mmm. Damn tall beds. Mycroft bought them. Said if he had to stay overnight that he insisted on being comfortable.”

John smiles, “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Mr. Holmes nods and backs from the room. “Well, I’ll be off then. If you need anything, feel free to help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The moment the door closes, John falls back on the bed, a myriad of emotions surging through him. First off, he’s going to kill Mycroft. The git completely manipulated John from the beginning, stealing into Baker Street and kidnapping him, using him to lure Sherlock home, and maneuvering this whole ‘favor’ thing to his benefit so he could pawn John off on his parents while he does god-knows-what with his brother - once again- behind John's back. Yeah, they were going to have words when next they met.

Next is Molly - and anyone else who was in on the secret fake death thing. He knows Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson was as in the dark as he was. But Molly wasn’t. John is mad, yes, because Molly didn’t tell him. Admittedly, they didn’t see each other much after, but she went to the funeral. She cried. She hugged him. And she lied. He’s sure he’ll forgive her, eventually, but not right now. Right now it’s a fresh cut. 

Then there’s Sherlock. John’s mad, yes, but he also understands. Actually, he dips perilously between the two emotions far too quickly, so much so that he constantly feels the fleeting edges of whiplash. And now he’s stowed away like a long-lost and incredibly ignorant treasure in the house where his best friend, the famous consulting detective of London, spent his childhood. John is still staggered by the weight of this realization and quickly moves a hand to cover his mouth, stifling the giggle that slips out. 

“Holy Christ. I’m in Sherlock Holmes’ childhood home.”

No amount of saying it out loud makes it any less real and John lingers in this perpetual state of awe as he slips from the bed, turns out the light, shrugs off his shoes and clothes, and slides under the heavy duvet. It's been one hell of a week, but the warm weight immediately feels like a hug and he’s reminded of just how harrowing everything has been. His breaths even out and, instead of feeling the usual bout of overwhelming suffocation or panic, he’s surprised to find he’s quite comfortable. He feels safe here, in this house with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. In the house where his best friend and the British Government grew up. John grunts softly and yawns. He tugs the duvet up, tucking it plumply under his chin. Yes, he feels so safe that minutes later his eyes droop and close and, this time, the doctor gladly welcomes the darkness. 


	14. The Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gets a gift. A phone pings. Coworkers can be annoying.

It’s been eight days since Lestrade last saw Mycroft Holmes. It doesn’t really feel that long since he left the posh private home where Sherlock was very much alive and John Watson laid unconscious on the detective's chest. But it does feel like forever that Greg’s been ignoring Mycroft’s texts, calls, and as of five minutes ago, his gifts. 

The package, a sleek black box containing what looks like a very expensive watch, sits on his desk mocking him of all the things he can have but for good reason isn’t taking. His phone pings but he ignores it and continues to look at the box. It’s bribery. Simple bribery. And Greg, being a hard-working, honest-to-goodness, and unfortunately underpaid Detective Inspector, knows better than to take bribes. 

A rhythmic rap sounds on the door. Sally Donovan pops her head in. Greg doesn’t look up.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About the box?”

“What?” Now he does look up. The curly-headed Donovan and her tag-along Anderson stand in his doorway.

“You’ve been staring at that box for the past forty-five minutes,” Anderson says. Donovan nods.

“What do you two want?” Greg snaps.

“We’re about to head out,” the tall forensics man says then quickly recants, “I mean, alone . . . to our own homes. Separately.” Donovan stiffens. 

Greg looks from one to the other skeptically. Anyone with eyes knows the two are having an on-and-off affair when Anderson's wife is out of town. And she's gone quite often. But Lestrade never says anything, as it's none of his business and he doesn't want to know more than he already does. This also sits well with the sometimes-couple in front of him as Donovan attempts to change the subject and rushes forward holding up a file in her manicured hand, “I have the photos from the crime scene. Thought you would want a look at them,” she says, but her eyes alight on the box as she peeks over. “Someone get you a present?”

“Um, yeah. It’s nothing. Just a watch.”

At this, Anderson moves forward and when he reaches the desk his eyes bug out. “Just a watch. Just a watch!! This is _the_ watch, Inspector,” he fumbles with his phone for a moment then turns the box toward him, examining both before facing them back to Greg and shoving his mobile in his face. “This is not _nothing_ , this is a Breguet.”

Greg sighs and takes the phone off him. His finger scrolls down the product page and he stops. “Holy Christ.”

“Yeah, holy Christ!” Anderson says taking his phone back with a smile.

“What are you on about?” Donovan asks.

“The watch,” Greg says.

“The watch,” Anderson echoes, showing the phone to Donovan.

“Oh my god! It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“It’s worth eight and a half million pounds,” Anderson finishes.

They all stare at the box. 

“Your friend must really like you.”

At this, Greg sits back and shakes his head in the negative, “It’s really more of an apology.”

“She must be really sorry then,” Anderson says.

Greg shifts uncomfortably in his chair, “Was there anything else you two needed?”

Donovan hesitates while Anderson continues to stare in awe at the jewelry, “I know it’s none of my business but, are you in trouble sir?”

“Am I in trouble?” Greg parrots, his brows raised in surprise.

“Yes, trouble,” she nods toward the watch.

“No. Oh, no, this is - I didn’t -” Greg fumbles with his words, trying for the life of him to figure out how to explain what he himself doesn't understand. “I dated someone.” No. “I went on one date.” Better. “I didn’t see this person again for a few months, and when I finally did, we argued.”

“And now you have an eight million pound watch,” Anderson finishes. 

Greg smiles thinly. “Yes, so, no illegal activities. I’m not being framed or bribed.” He doesn’t think. “It’s just a gift. All right?”

Donovan looks inquisitive and Anderson blinks dumbly.

“Are you going to see _this person_ again?” Donovan asks, and Greg knows she knows it’s not a woman. 

“Yes!” Anderson answers desperately making both Greg and Donovan glare at him.

“I don’t know. And my personal life is none of you twos business,” Greg snaps and stands, desperately hoping his height and loud voice will assert his dominance. “Now, unless there’s something work-related, you can kindly see yourselves out of my office.”

“I think you should see him again,” Donovan says.

Anderson, like a muppet, nods, then does a surprised double-take at Greg but continues to nod. “Yep, I agree with Sally, because this,” he runs a finger over the lid of the black box, “this is one hell of an apology.”

Greg runs a hand over his face in exhaustion. “Please, get out.”

Finally, Donovan drags Anderson from the office and the door slams shut. Greg keeps his eyes up long enough to watch the blinds bounce against the glass and rain down flecks of dust. He sits back down at his desk and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the box. Why isn’t he answering Mycroft? He should. He should at least reply that he can’t accept the gift. 

_Ping_

“Nah, I’m not gonna do it.”

His lips twist as he contemplates the risk that getting involved with the most powerful man in England entails. It’s bad. He knows it’s bad. Right up there with secret government conspiracies and high-level assassinations and such. All the things he dreamed of as a child. Greg puts his head in his hands and peeks through his fingers at the box.

“Ahhhh, Christ.”

What the hell is he thinking? He’s already involved with the most powerful man in England; accepted a gift, gone on a date, and had a private make-out session at his home. And then, two months later, like a complete dolt he pulls a gun on him, threatens him, and ignores him for over a week. Hell, he should be the one sending gifts to Mycroft. This is insanity. This. is. insanity. 

“This is insanity.”

_Ping_

He looks longingly at the phone. The first couple of times he really worried about what would happen to him if he didn’t reply. Would Mycroft send someone after him? Kidnap him? Lock him up? Kill him? But Greg has since talked some sense into himself and grew a pair. He hasn’t answered the phone, nor has he responded to any of the texts. Even though he wants to. 

“Bloody hell!”

Not able to resist any longer, Greg snatches up his mobile, and against his better . . . no, _best_ judgement, looks at the messages, scrolling back to the oldest and reading up to the most recent. 

MH

8 December 

10:35 p.m. 

\- _I am afraid I have been quite horrible to you as of late. Allow me to make it up to you?_

MH

9 December 

8:52 p.m. 

\- _Gregory, please, I would truly like to see you again._

9:05 p.m. 

\- _I know you are working late. I can have a car come get you._

_\- This is not a threat, just an offer._

MH

11 December 

9:03 p.m. 

\- _You are right, I am a cad for not confiding in you. Please, forgive me?_

MH

13 December 

2:33 a.m. 

\- _I’m sorry._

MH

Today 

4:42 p.m. 

\- _I understand if you do not want to see me, but please accept this gift as a token of my respect and admiration._

 _\- Because you are a better man than I, as you should be._

4:43 p.m. 

\- _But I do wish you to know that I am sincerely apologetic for my actions._

Greg’s palms flatten like starfish over his cheeks, fingers pulling down his eyes as he groans aloud. “Don’t do it. Don’t you do it Lestrade. You’ll only get hurt again. Besides, men like that - powerful and dangerous men with the might of England at their beck and call - they don’t settle. Not with someone like you.”

_Ping_

4:52 p.m. - _I will be here if you ever need anything._

Greg sighs heavily and clears his throat, “You’re an idiot, a right bloody idiot.” He picks up the mobile.

GL

4:55 p.m. 

\- _Send your car._


	15. A Strange Fondness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets lucky. A bathroom counter is damaged. Sherlock 'borrows' things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut.

Mycroft presses the flat of his palm over a hot stomach as he sucks the thick cock deep into the back of his throat. His guest keeps moving, thrusting his hips up eagerly and, normally, Mycroft would allow this but the sheer size and length of this particular appendage could cause him harm if he’s not careful. Not that he’s complaining. 

He hums softly as he bobs his head, twisting his tongue on the up-stroke and closing his mouth tighter over the hardening member, the continuous cries of “ _Ah, ah, yes, ah_ ,” spurring him on, making him quicken his pace. 

His other hand trails over an exposed bit of skin and between the man’s thighs, fingers searching and lingering over a tightening sack. Mycroft squeezes gently and doubles his speed, the sounds of wet spit slicking as he sucks harder, knowing his partner’s nearly there. And, as if on cue, the legs he lays over tense sharply and a deep masculine groan sounds.

“Ah Christ, _Mycroft_!” 

He hums in approval as thick hot streams of cum hit his tongue and he swallows them down eagerly. And he’s very eager. There’s another, louder cry as he pulls harder, hand holding his lover down as he sucks everything he can from the throbbing appendage until there’s fingers in his hair pulling him up. 

“I’m sorry. It’s too much.” 

He lets the still hard cock slide from his mouth and sits back, his fingers trailing and clinging over warm skin like a limpet as he straddles DI Gregory Lestrade’s thick legs, “No. It’s fine.”

Mycroft pulls the kerchief from the pocket of his discarded jacket and dabs at his mouth. His hazel eyes scan over the inspector, and he can’t help but admire the flushed skin, the trail of hair running down his stomach, and, of course, the very large and incredibly impressive genitalia said hair leads to. This was definitely a good idea, seducing Gregory. And although he’s had to move interminably slowly, Greg having never been with a man before, Mycroft still believes the endeavor incredibly worthwhile, especially when he’s witness to the afterglow. 

It’s not that the inspector’s against such activities. Mycroft knows he’s willing, if not incredibly keen if the amount of seminal fluid he’s swallowed is any indication, but there’s still a hesitance to the man that makes Mycroft tread lightly. This would be the third time in so many days that the gorgeous silver fox has graced him with his succulent body and, for some unknown reason, Mycroft doesn’t want it to be the last. 

A flush creeps from Gregory’s cheeks down to his chest as he notices Mycroft staring. This results in him reaching down and fumbling about to hide his spent limb in his pants. It’s cute. Mycroft grimaces out of habit at the resulting tickle in his chest. He’s always, as a rule, made an attempt to not develop feelings for another person. But unfortunately, exceptions have to be made, such as his parents and Sherlock. And now, it seems, Gregory Lestrade. Because as much as he tries, he can’t escape the strange fondness he has for the banausic detective inspector.

With a pat to his lover’s leg, Mycroft moves to stand but is caught by his wrist.

“You’re leaving.”

“You always say the most obvious things, Gregory. It’s charming, of course.”

Greg blinks and looks confused but shakes his head, “No, you always leave . . . just after. Why?”

Mycroft takes a breath. Oh dear, how to explain this? “Well, I thought it polite to go to the restroom and get you a wet flannel.”

“But . . .”

And Mycroft nearly blushes himself when the half-naked inspector looks pointedly at the obvious erection straining against Mycroft’s tailored slacks. “It’s fine, Gregory. It’ll pass.”

He goes to stand again but Greg doesn’t let go and instead pulls so that Mycroft hunches over him. The man sits up and tentatively slides a finger into the waistband of his trousers and tugs, “I don’t want it to pass. I’d actually like you to take care of it.”

The sharp heat of arousal spikes through him, settling low in his stomach and Mycroft licks his lips, “Now? Are you sure?”

Deft hands pull until the buttons pop from his trousers. He’ll have to get new ones. Greg then tugs up his shirt and slides his hand along the side of Mycroft’s hip, cool fingers ghosting over hot skin making him shiver. 

“Yes,” the inspector pauses in his haste, again turning hesitant and careful. “I want to watch . . . if that’s all right?”

Mycroft can barely breathe. His hands suddenly have minds of their own, pulling at his trousers and pants until he can release his now painfully hard prick from its confines. He goes to grip himself but hesitates, his overworked body at war with his mind that’s yelling at him to stop. He must go slow. For Gregory. But instead of taking himself in hand and pulling himself to completion, he does something else, something that surprises even him.

“Tell me what to do, Gregory.”

Greg blinks up at him, “What?”

“I would like you to tell me what to do. I . . . I want you to be in control.”

The inspector lets out a deep jaunty laugh and shakes his head, “Holy Christ, the most powerful man in England has a submissive kink.”

Mycroft’s eyes drop in shame and he leans back, seeming to move in slow motion to put himself away. What the hell is he thinking? Playing out a fantasy. How ridiculous! He’s nearly off the couch when Greg grabs a handful of his clothes. 

“No, Mycroft, please.” 

But the soft apology doesn’t register and Mycroft manages to get his pants back up with shaky hands and stand.

“Stop.”

The command is strong and masculine and nearly makes Mycroft moan aloud. Gods, it's sexy. And it works for him in all the right ways. He stops dead, heart pounding and hands slack as he waits desperately for the next order. Thankfully, Greg doesn’t disappoint.

“Come here.”

He eyes the inspector before complying, watching his chest rise and fall and loving the dark confidence in his face, a confidence he truly wasn’t expecting. Greg takes a moment, making eye contact before he reaches out and pulls Mycroft to sit flush on his lap and then, to his great delight, those strong hands grasp his shirt, ripping it open sending buttons flying in all directions. Mycroft revels in the solid heat of them as they trail slowly over his stomach and chest, a thumb pausing to flick over his nipple. 

“Gregory,” he says - or is it a plea? Christ, he's nearly out of breath. And when did it get so hot in here?!

In reply, the inspector grips his waist, lifting him up just enough to shift him onto his knees. “Now, take these off," he fingers the dangling loop of Mycroft's trousers and tugs, a small, wicked smile twisting the corner of his mouth. 

And who was he to argue? Quickly and with shaking hands, Mycroft divulges himself of his trousers and pulls out his swollen penis stroking gently from root to tip. It’s dry and not exactly the most comfortable but Greg seems to read his mind and grabs the lotion. Squirting some into his big hands, he rubs them together to warm them and pushes Mycroft’s away, taking over with a firm grip. Mycroft squirms, his hips jutting forward of their own accord as his lover squeezes tightly, the calloused roughness tugging and pulling steadily over his already leaking cock. A ball of burning heat builds in his abdomen and his skin tingles where the inspector's hands touch.

“ _Please . . ._ Gregory.”

Greg bites his lip and moves one hand to hold Mycroft’s waist while the other pumps over him faster, twisting tightly at the tip. This time Mycroft does moan aloud and the inspector smiles in full, his eyes alight with lusty excitement.

“Mycroft,” he says in a deep commanding voice, "You’re going to cum for me."

Mycroft closes his eyes and rocks his hips, more than happy to comply. The heat is now a flame in his stomach. He's nearly there. The hand on his hip tightens and he blindly reaches out, his thin fingers finding purchase on the leather couch. He tightens his hold and pants desperately. It feels so good. So good. There's a yell and a squeeze and Mycroft throws his head back, a raw moan ripping from his depths as his body shudders and his vision goes white. 

-

-

-

He wakes to the sound of running water and a protesting full bladder. With a frown, Mycroft rolls to his side and realizes he’s still in his day clothes. Most of them anyway. He doesn’t remember asking Gregory to stay over, but then again, he doesn’t remember falling asleep either. No matter, if the man’s still here then bully for him as he can most assuredly go again, if the lovely inspector is so inclined that is. 

Stretching out over the bed like a cat, he slowly gets up and makes his way across the room sliding quietly into the restroom only to stop cold, his breath hitching in protest at the drabby creature intruding in his home.

“Bloody hell!” he ejaculates, then turns to go for a weapon but pauses, really looking at the man hovering over his marble sink. The two lock eyes through the mirror and Mycroft curses again, “Sherlock? What the devil are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question brother, except by the state of your ruined clothes and rumpled hair I won’t have to. Congratulations by the way. I’m sure you must be proud your paramour is skilled enough to leave you in such a state.”

Mycroft self consciously moves his hands to his wrinkled clothes and fumbles about in an attempt at modesty while he gets his bearings. “I could say the same about you, invading my home in what appears to be beggars clothes and a badly worn moustache.”

In response, Sherlock rips off the facial hair and flicks it against the mirror where it sticks like a drowned caterpillar. He then reaches over and picks up a pair of garden shears waving them about dangerously before pointing the tip into his own chest. “Groundskeeper, which wouldn’t be necessary if you would allow me into your safe houses.”

At this, Mycroft smiles like a cat with the cream. “But if just anyone were allowed onto the property it wouldn’t be safe now would it? I take it your search for the elusive Doctor Watson is not going well then?” 

In response, Sherlock glares, tosses the shears onto the counter and proceeds to strip off his filthy jacket and shoes. Mycroft shoos his brother to the side and turns the tap to rinse away the loose dirt, lips pursing in frustration at the deep gouges left by the shears. 

“I did allow you to break into my home and download the safe house locations.” At this, Sherlock pauses and Mycroft shrugs, “I had to give you something to do, didn’t I? Any leads as of yet?”

“No.” The answer is clipped, then, “And I’m only checking the ones in London. You wouldn’t send him too far. There are thirty-four of them. Sixteen are empty. Five are occupied by scared refugees, three by high ranking government officials, and eight by Americans. And I mention the last specifically because they have a particular love of their guns, which they somehow have here in London.”

Mycroft laughs out loud, “Have a few dealings with the business end of their toys, have you? You poor thing. But no worse for wear, I see.” Sherlock sheds the rest of his disguise and walks back into the bedroom where he proceeds to rifle through Mycroft’s clothes, tossing everything to the floor until he comes across a pair of joggers and a t-shirt. It takes a herculean effort, but he manages not to strangle his little brother. “So two left then.”

Sherlock moves toward the closet, likely to pilfer his shoes next, but stops short, his eyes locking onto something on the bedside table. “No,” he says absently, “my search has come to an end now.” 

“It has,” Mycroft concludes absently, his eyes following Sherlocks. Bollocks. Still, he plays ignorant. “So what are your plans now little brother? Off to continue your fruitless scouring of government buildings? Maybe you'll attempt to bribe one of my people for information? Or perhaps you’ve decided to quit, realizing your search is in vain and that simply replacing your old friend with someone new is much easier. _Anyone_ can blog.” 

But his poking only does more damage to his property as Sherlock throws open the closet door and proceeds to toss shoes behind him even though a perfectly good pair of trainers sit directly in front of him. 

“On the contrary, I’ve decided to pack up and take a trip. I've a sudden familial feeling coming over me,” he smiles wickedly as he leaves.

Mycroft groans pathetically and glares at the loose toffee bars laying next to the bed, the kind always found at Mummys. This is a travesty. He must be getting old if he’s reduced to snacking in bed, even if he was feeding the delicious homemade treat to Gregory. But what’s done is done and now he must make yet another trip to his parents, if only to soothe the ruffled feathers he’s sure Sherlock’s presence will produce. 


	16. Capturing the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is nosy. Siger is open. Violet knows all.

The door screams like a distraught cat as it swings wide revealing a large dusty laboratory-like room. John reaches blindly for a light switch and flicks it. His hand comes away sticky. “Ahhhhgh. What the bloody hell . . . gross,” he reaches down and wipes the phlegmy substance on his trousers and, not surprised at all by what he’s found, moves into the room to make a slow lap. 

Shelves of books line the walls and, per normal, every available space seems covered in some form of abandoned experiment. A dissection table sits in the middle of the room separating everything into sections from samples to pamphlets to microscopes to chemistry sets. John cautiously lifts a sheet from a large table to find various sized vials and what looks like body parts in liquid-filled jars. He skirts around that only to come to several barrels squeezed into a far corner, tubes protruding from the top to snake off in different directions, a couple trapped in the cracked window. 

He comes across a notepad and flicks through it. Every page is filled top to bottom with chemistry notes and biological maps of various bodies, animal and human. Some, John understands, others, are theories he would never attempt in his dizziest daydreams. But it’s not the content that gets him, it’s the handwriting. The script is so different from the man he knows now and John wonders if that’s normal, if such characteristics as calligraphy can change so greatly as a person develops or if Sherlock had someone else here with him. 

John twists his lips at the thought. Not that he wishes Sherlock unhappiness as a teen but he finds it hard to imagine his friend any way other than how he is now . . . and it irks him to think that he isn’t the first. 

_Christ. You imagine him silent and alone without you. Like he’s nothing and no one beyond John Watson. Stupid!_

His train of thought is a bit not good and he rightfully mentally chastises himself, replaces the notepad, and turns to leave only to start violently. Siger Holmes stands in the doorway, brows drawn, staring at him intently.

“I wouldn’t touch anything if I were you,” the old man steps into the room and taps on a glass jar that looks to contain a large bald rat. Or squirrel. “If Sherlock’s experiments weren’t dangerous to start, the amount of time they’ve sat here has likely got them there.” 

John nods and watches as Mr. Holmes makes his own slow lap around the room, pausing occasionally when something either interesting or considerably disturbing catches his attention. Occasionally, he chuckles or points out things, “I brought him this,” and “Oh, his Mum would be right mad about this one.” 

John smiles and watches him. It’s nice how Mr. Holmes’ voice is soft and kind, just like the man himself. There’s not a single sharp edge there. He’s just as John sees him and, in a roundabout way, John finds himself searching for a bit of Sherlock or Mycroft in him but comes up empty. He frowns and catches himself as Mr. Holmes turns to look at him.

“You’ve questions. I knew you would.” John opens his mouth to explain but Mr. Holmes holds up a hand, “It’s good. I can tell it comes from a place of love.” He smiles so kindly that John wishes he could hug him but the man turns to leave, waving him along. “Turn out the light son, I’m not touching that switch.”

John does as bid and pulls the door closed behind, jogging to catch up. He and Mr. Holmes walk slowly down a dirt path that leads to a large red barn on the outskirts of the garden. He doesn’t speak, but merely follows the elder Holmes inside and admires the numerous horses lined in their stalls. 

“Besides his lab, this was Sherlock’s favorite place when he was a boy.”

John smiles, “I didn’t know he could ride.”

A deep, jolly laugh bursts from the man which makes John chuckle too, “Oh goodness no. Sherlock was terrified of the horses. He talked to them, of course, but he never rode.” 

They continue down the hay-covered center until they reach the last of the grooming stalls. Mr. Holmes reaches down and nudges an unsuspecting bump of hay from which a tiny piglet scampers out, squealing his distress at being disturbed.

“This is who he spent his time with,” Mr. Holmes says, but the smile begins to fade from his face and John finds the courage to start asking questions.

“So, Sherlock didn’t have a lot of friends as a child?”

“There weren’t a lot of children in these parts then. Just young Victor Trevor. They played as lads but eventually, like everyone else, young Victor’s family went to live in the city,” Mr. Holmes gesticulates in the direction of London a bit gravely and Sherlock can tell that all the happy stories of his friend have come to an end. “During that time, the only other children Sherlock saw were at primary.”

“What happened at primary school?”

Mr. Holmes smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “Sherlock’s different, in a good way, but the kids didn’t take too well to him and made fun. I suppose it was to be expected. Over time, it became so bad that Sherlock begged us to keep him home. We spoke to the school and it was recommended that Sherlock try to stick it out for the rest of term. We agreed, but things went downhill fast.” 

The cold winter air creeps over John’s skin and he shivers as he speaks, “So I take it the kids became violent.”

Siger nods, “We pulled both Sherlock and Mycroft out immediately but the damage was done. Sherlock was no longer a happy, carefree child but a sullen and quiet one. We decided to homeschool the boys from then on and things seemed to look up.”

The two men move from the pigs and out of the barn to face the woods some hundred yards out. Mr. Holmes lets out a long, shaky breath and John immediately looks at him with a doctor’s eye but he’s waved off.

“I’m fine, Doctor Watson. Let’s keep going.”

John’s then led behind the building to where a gazebo sits surrounded by exotic bushes sporting several large yellow squid-looking fruits. The view here is stunning as it overlooks a large pond dotted by willow trees. They sit on the cushioned benches facing the water.

“We were excited when the Trevors finally moved back. Sherlock was about fifteen and Victor seventeen. And, for about a year, everything seemed fine, but one afternoon Sherlock came home crying.” Mr. Holmes pauses and an unnatural darkness falls over him making John extremely uncomfortable. “He looked horrible. Like someone had beaten him and tossed him in a ditch. Wouldn’t talk to me nor Violet.”

There’s a long and heavy pause where Mr. Holmes looks so distraught that John desperately wants to reach over and hug him, but he remains seated. This is not his father. And he’s not sure how welcome his comfort would be at this moment. 

“Mr. Holmes, you don’t have to- “

No. It’s fine,” he says, staring out at the lake, “Mycroft finally came home from university a few days later. He was always able to connect to his brother when we couldn’t.” His fists clench in his lap, “Sherlock clung to him so tightly. It broke me to see my boys that way. I didn’t know what to do,” he pauses to wipe his eyes and John’s heart feels ripped open, “but Mycroft said he would handle it. And we let him.” 

“So what happened to Victor?” John asks through clenched teeth. 

“He came by once, to see Sherlock, but Mycroft wasn’t having it. They fought, right out there in the garden,” he points some distance away.

“Really?” John sputters, “Mycroft Holmes engaged in fisticuffs?!” 

His surprise makes Mr. Holmes smile and John’s glad to see the old man move away from his pain, “Oh, yes. Mike wasn’t always such an uppity gentleman. And he loves his brother. They may seem distant now but Mycroft has always been very protective over Sherlock,” Mr. Holmes pauses, seemingly in deep thought for several seconds before he blinks and looks back at John, then his brows raise, “Ah, I remember now! So . . . the two young men had it out next to Violet’s championship rose bushes and that cad Victor left with his tail between his legs, never to be seen again.” 

“So, did you ever find out what happened?” and damn if John doesn’t feel like a heel for asking, but he has to know. He has to know how to tread. How to heal his friend.

“I have an idea, but the boys never told. We spoke to Victor’s parents but they were just as in the dark as we were.” 

“You think Sherlock and Victor- “

Siger swallows thickly and carefully unfolds his hands in his lap, “I think things happened that Sherlock wasn’t comfortable with, but I don’t dare speculate further.”

John nods, knowing that if he knew where Victor Trevor was right now, he’d do something very stupid and a bit not good. “That kind of thinking is dangerous.”

Mr. Holmes turns to him, eyes hard and familiar, “I knew you’d understand,” a pause, then, “I know it’s none of my business but, since you’ve known him, has Sherlock had any relationships?”

The question catches John off guard and he fumbles for a moment with his words. “Like, romantic? No. I mean, he’s close to people . . . like Lestrade, an inspector with Scotland Yard, and his landlady Mrs. Hudson. And there’s Molly Hooper, who, as you know, has a huge and disheartening crush on him . . . but he’s never entertained any advances that I’ve seen.” John pauses a second, feeling he’s not doing his friend justice, then, “But he’s Sherlock and, I can’t -- I can’t say for certain because as close as I think I am to him, he’s still very private.”

“Mmm,” the older man grunts, “What about you?”

Again, John is flummoxed even though he understands the line of questioning. Siger Holmes worries about his sons. He wants to know Sherlock is safe with John. As he rightly should. But John still stutters, both uncomfortable and terrified of his answer and Mr. Holmes’ reaction.

“W-what? You mean me and Sherlock?” Mr. Holmes nods and flashes him a kind smile but John shakes his head, “No. He, uh, he dismissed that notion the first day we met.”

“I see.” 

There’s another long moment of silence where John gets lost in his own head, completely oblivious of the swaying branches of the willow trees and the water sparkling like diamonds under the rare beams of sunlight. It’s not until Mr. Holmes speaks again that John realizes they’ve been there for quite some time lost in their own minds and that John may not be all that welcome. 

“I think Violet could use a hand in the kitchen.”

John looks at the older man. He doesn’t move to get up, so John nods, “Of course,” and he leaves the man to his thoughts.

-

-

The long walk back to the house reminds John of the considerably chilling wind and he pulls his coat tighter around him. He very nearly turns back, again worried for Mr. Holmes’ health, but in the end, decides to leave the man to his privacy.

Their conversation was deep and John briefly wonders if Mr. Holmes told him that story for a reason. Does he think John can help? Does he want John to find Victor? Exact some form of revenge for him? Or maybe he wants John to speak to Sherlock on his behalf. But surely, these theories would’ve been explained or hinted at during their conversation. And so, John is left in the dark. 

Stepping into the house, John’s immediately met by Violet Holmes who takes his coat and pushes a cup of tea into his hands. “John. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you and Siger in for lunch but you two aren’t answering your phones.”

As a habit, John absently pats his pockets, “I’m sorry Mrs. Holmes, I haven’t been carrying mine. I was with Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know if he’s got his on him,” John turns back and nods, “I left him behind the barn. He’ll be okay?”

Mrs. Holmes hesitates but covers with a smile and tugs him to a seat at the table and pats his arm, “Of course. Siger always needs a little time after such conversations.”

“So, you know what we talked about. But how- “

John shakes his head and Violet laughs a tinkling laugh, “Oh, come now John, I know everything that goes on at this house. You of all people should know by now who Sherlock and Mycroft take after.”

“You’re absolutely right,” John says, feeling a bit ignorant and tries to hide his embarrassment behind his cuppa.

Mrs. Holmes studies him like her younger son would a murder victim, “Are you all right, dear? I know you and Sherlock are close.”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m angry. Not at Sherlock, but at the circumstances. At this Victor Trevor guy.”

She raises her brows, “So you’re not angry with Sherlock?”

“No,” John frowns.

“Not at all?”

“Why would I be?”

“You were quite angry when you got here. Not that we’re meant to make you feel any different toward him, mind you, but I’ve always found it hard to stay mad at Sherlock for any length of time,” she smiles, briefly in a world of her own where her two young boys are happy and healthy, “not with those eyes.”

“No,” John says again, “I’m not angry with Sherlock. I _was_. . . but I understand. Grudgingly. I think I’m more hurt than anything.”

“And that’s more than understandable,” she pats his hand.

“I admit that being here, I feel I’m much closer to understanding him and, like you, I find it hard to stay mad at him,” a pause, then, “mostly because he’s distracting me with dead bodies and cold cases.”

“So, you’ve forgiven him.”

He can feel the woman hedging toward something, but John’s too busy working out his own feelings and what that means for the next time they meet. “I’m not sure how I’ll react when I next see Sherlock but, spending time with the people who know him and love him are making it easier to do that,” he looks up and smiles kindly at her, a silent thank you. 

“That’s good to hear. Sherlock needs someone like you. Someone to love. We’re glad you stayed, John.” 

John’s heart hurts, absolutely crushed by her words but he doesn’t have time to react further because Mrs Holmes moves off, finishing lunch as if she’d never spoken. And thankfully, she starts up her own conversation, giving John a much needed out.

“Both boys have always been so independent. Still are. And they show us they love us in their own way. Mycroft has our home under surveillance. He thinks we don’t know but we’re pretty smart cookies, old Siger and I. And Sherlock visits once every six months, without fail. Sometimes sends us treats through the post. Homemade sugar-free sugar. A jar of white liquid labeled ‘milk’. I threw that one out.”

John laughs heartily at this, understanding her reaction exactly -- and then it hits him. Sherlock shows his love to his parents just like he does to John. The manic detective may not make him bizarre homemade treats but he involves him in the work. He asks for John’s opinion. He sometimes makes the tea. John blinks, absolutely gobsmacked at the obvious connection and what it indicates. 

Sherlock loves him. He must do. 

Mrs. Holmes, watching him through her peripheral, smiles and continues stirring at the hob, “Mind you, Sherlock has always been a special case. Loving him is easy, but living with him . . . well, I’m sure you understand. He can be a right mess, shutting everyone out, head stuck in a microscope or a test tube all day, violin screeching at all hours of the night when he’s upset, and never allowing _anyone_ to take care of him.” 

“It sounds like he hasn’t changed much,” John finally says, “Except he can only be more bull-headed now.”

“Mmm. This all started during his angsty teen years, mind you, and only grew worse as he got older. But he’s also a soft streak to him. The few friends he does have, he speaks very highly of and I can tell he cares a great deal about them.” Her smile turns from amused to thoughtful, “I daresay, you won’t find a man more loyal or devoted. You just have to give him a chance.” 


End file.
